Follow Me to Heaven
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: It's 1947.  As the Cold War dawns, the Unsung Heroes operation is slated for revival.  As new missions begin, enemies, both old and new, seek to stop the operation before it starts.  And Newkirk soon finds out that almost anything can become personal...
1. The Invitation

_Author's Note: This fic is going to be the first in a series of Cold War mystery fics, but I have every intent of continuing with my WWII-era fics, as well. This particular fic takes place after my in-progress "Hollow Bastion" fic, but it can be read independently of it. I also have every intent of finishing "Hollow Bastion," but as it was an early fic that I started writing before I had gained a good grip on the characters, it will be revised before I continue with it. In the meantime, I've started writing this because I'm in such a Newkirk state of mind…_

* * *

Peter Newkirk squinted as he took aim at his target.

"Easy, Mate, easy…" a voice whispered in his ear.

"Leave off; you'll spoil 'is aim, you will…"

"Right; 'e doesn't need you telling 'im what to do."

Newkirk cleared his throat, and the three other voices fell silent almost immediately. He looked towards his target, imagining Major Hochstetter's picture to be pasted over it. He hurled the object in his hand.

An instant later, the dart landed cleanly in the dartboard—dead center. Applause burst out from all around him.

"Thank you, Gents!" Newkirk said, taking an overdramatic bow. "Just another effortless feat for the descendant of Robin 'ood!"

"You still spreading that story, Peter?" his long-time friend Roger asked, taking a long sip from his drink.

"Never mind that; was there anyone who actually bought that story?" asked another friend, Philip.

Newkirk responded with a shrug.

The third friend, James, shook his head and took a drink, as well. Newkirk had always been full of the most unbelievable stories ever since they had been friends at school. He was glad to see that Newkirk still had that trait—it had been noticeable to him, Roger, and Philip that their long-time friend had been significantly changed upon his return from the war. And all of them had been severely affected the day they had received the news that two more of their gang had been killed in the Blitz. The Dartboard Six, as they had been called, were now the Dartboard Four, though the four surviving members held the other two forever in their hearts.

But, even so, Peter Newkirk seemed to have changed the most out of all of them. The others couldn't blame him, of course; his sister Mavis had told Roger about how her brother had been captured by Germans trying to make it to Dunkirk and had subsequently spent almost five years in a prisoner of war camp near Hammelburg. Newkirk did not wish to talk much about his experiences there, though they had been introduced to one of the friends their comrade had made in the Luft Stalag; many a time, they had seen him talking with a short Frenchman who visited London frequently, while Newkirk himself made frequent trips to Paris. There was no doubt that Newkirk had changed, and even after two years, it looked doubtful that he would ever completely return to the carefree soul he had been before the war. However, it was on evenings like this, when the four of them were in the Red Lion, playing darts again, that it seemed almost like old times—though the absence of their dead friends did cast a somber mood on them at times.

Newkirk whistled as he distributed the winnings to the other three.

"Oi, Archibald!" he called to the bartender, waving some extra pound notes. "We'll 'ave another round of your best!"

"Better 'old that thought, Peter," said James. "Look who just arrived."

Newkirk glanced at the pub entryway and promptly sat up as Mavis herself walked in. A deep grimace was etched in her face as she glared with eyes as hazel as her brother's.

"I thought you said she was 'aving dinner tonight with 'er Niles?" Philip said.

"That's what I thought," Newkirk murmured, knowing that she had found herself a new boyfriend. "Oh, blimey; something must've 'appened."

"She broke it off with Niles!" Roger said, with a grin. He had always had a crush on Mavis, even in their younger years. "This could be me chance!"

"Roger, I wouldn't do that if I were—" Newkirk began, but decided to let him go.

"Always a pleasure, Mavis," Roger said. "Give us a kiss, Luv, go on…"

He trailed off, however, as Mavis gave him a piercing glare.

"Well," she said, looking around the pub. "If you're 'ere, then that must mean…" She paused as she noticed her brother, his eyes shifting repeatedly from left to right as he usually did when he was nervous. "Typical. You spend all evening in the pub playing darts when your only sister just got 'erself insulted! You should be telling Niles off!"

Newkirk's eyes narrowed. "What did 'e do?"

"We're 'aving our dinner," she said. "I went to fix me 'air; I wasn't gone for more than three minutes. Peter, 'e was flirting with the waitress when I got back!"

Newkirk sighed, relieved. "You're sure 'e didn't try anything?"

"Are you ruddy joking?" she asked. "I walked right out and went 'ome to talk to you. You weren't there, but I nearly killed meself tripping over the loose part of the carpet _again_! Peter, you promised you'd get it fixed!"

"I will, I will," he insisted. Part of the carpet in their apartment had come loose weeks ago—just inside the doorframe. Anyone entering the apartment was in danger of being tripped. And even though Newkirk had every intention of getting it repaired, he never seemed to be able to get around to it.

"When—after the next war?" Mavis asked, dryly. "Anyway, I came 'ere, knowing that this is where you'd be. Oh, and this came for you in the mail."

She tossed a letter at him.

"Oi, you got one, too!" Philip exclaimed.

"What is it?" Newkirk asked, opening it without bothering to read the envelope.

"Invitation to the RAF reunion next weekend," James said. "The three of us received one earlier today."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Newkirk asked, baffled.

"Well, we know 'ow… quiet you get when we bring up the war," Roger said. He certainly felt that the moment was turning awkward—and quickly. "Peter, look… none of us can even begin to understand what you must 'ave gone through; if you'd just talk to us, Mate…"

"And we also feel bad that while we all ended up getting ourselves promoted to sergeants, you're still a corporal," Philip added. "They should give you some recompense for the five years you spent in that ruddy place."

Newkirk grunted. The lack of a promotion was a sore spot for him and LeBeau—they spent many an hour ranting about the fact that they were still corporals after everything they did to make that underground operation a success in Stalag 13. And from what they understood, Carter was still a tech sergeant. He didn't mind as much, though he did admit that he was a bit disappointed. They understood, of course, that the information of what they had done was still highly classified, and that was, perhaps, why they had not received anything. It was also why Newkirk had always clammed up when his old schoolmates talked about their war stories.

_If you three only knew what kind of stories I had to tell, your jaws would drop until they hit the table_, he had thought to himself on one occasion. _Even if nothing else, I wish I could have told you the truth about the Berlin Betty incident. I know you three don't hold it against me, and I'm grateful for that, but if you only knew the real reason why I made that broadcast for her_…

He had trailed off after that; there was no point in dreaming about "ifs." He would have to let them continue thinking that the broadcast he had done for Berlin Betty had been done in a moment of weakness. They could never know the truth about the coded message he had sent…

"I don't suppose you'll be going?" James asked, bringing Newkirk to the present.

"What?" the corporal asked. "Oh. Actually, I think I will be going. I mean, it'd be a shame to waste the food."

"It wouldn't be wasted," Roger said, pointing to a line on the invitation. "Look. 'Attendees are welcomed and encouraged to bring guests to the reunion.'" He smirked as a thought struck him. "Oi, Mavis, seeing as though you aren't seeing anyone at the moment, would you like to…" He trailed off as her refusal was clearly written on her features.

"You lot are all the same—immature and always looking at other girls, even when you've got your arm around one!" she snapped. "What 'appened to those romantic men—the ones always so full of chivalry?"

"Chivalry? You won't find that around 'ere," Newkirk mused. He sighed. "Well, I don't 'ave anyone to take along as a guest… unless Louis would like to visit for the weekend, I suppose…"

"That's it!" Mavis exclaimed.

Newkirk blinked. "What's it?"

"The French are the romantics—the ones with debonair chivalry!" she exclaimed. "You read about it in all the romance novels! Peter, you take Louis and me as your guests!"

"You and Louis!" Newkirk repeated. "_You and Louis_! Mavis, the bloke is nearly nine years older than you!"

"Then 'e'll be more mature than these blokes!" she insisted. "I'm going to get meself a gown first thing tomorrow!"

Pleased with the outcome of things, she left the pub in a considerably better mood.

"She chose a short French bloke over me…?" Roger asked, stunned.

"Watch it; that short French bloke is me mate, too, you know," Newkirk said. "Though whether or not 'e stays that way after I tell 'im this is another matter." He shook his head.

Somehow, he knew that this was not going to end well.

* * *

Deciding to deal with one issue at a time, Newkirk decided to pay the necessary money in the payphone to make a long-distance call to Paris to tell LeBeau about the reunion—conveniently forgetting to mention Mavis's arrangements. Blissfully unaware of what was in store for him, LeBeau was more than happy to drop everything and come to London.

"The restaurant will do fine without me; it is time I took a vacation," he had said, and he meant it; things were running much more smoothly at his restaurant, _Maison d' Frère-Loup_ (he had named the place "House of Brother-Wolf" cleverly after his code name during the operation—Big Bad Wolf) now that he owned the property on which it stood. "Why wait until next weekend? I will come tomorrow!"

And he had already gone before Newkirk could get in another word; if it weren't for Mavis, Newkirk wouldn't have minded at all. He always looked forward to LeBeau's visits; it was a chance to get together in the pub with someone who had been there at Stalag 13 with him for nearly every step of the way and discuss about the truth of what happened there—the missions, the tunnels, the disguises, the ploys, the friends, the enemies, the gorgeous underground agents who stole their hearts and broke them, too… all of the secrets.

Hopefully, this unforeseen hiccup with Mavis wouldn't change things this time. With any luck, Mavis might just forget all about it by the time the weekend came, or perhaps even found a new boyfriend.

He sighed, stepping out into the autumn air and headed for the apartment, stepping over the loose part of the carpet by habit as he entered and looked around. The place was in fair order, though Mavis had declared it a mess. However, Newkirk knew that LeBeau was not a person he had to tidy up for—as long as Newkirk stayed clear of the little kitchenette while the Frenchman was here. Even after this long, they simply could not agree on which kind of cuisine was the best.

The Englishman sighed again, sitting down on the sofa that could easily convert into a bed when LeBeau arrived. It was because of the Frenchman that he and his sister had their two-bedroom apartment; LeBeau had allowed Newkirk to work as an entertainer in his restaurant until he had found a job of his own, and Newkirk finally had—he and old acquaintance Sergeant Malcolm Flood were performing in a theatre devoted to magic shows. Newkirk performed the sleights of hand and prestidigitation acts as he did best, while Flood performed his many escape tricks; Newkirk usually assisted him in his acts, and sometimes those of other magicians, allowing him to earn extra money. The corporal was proud and pleased that he was, at last, earning enough to support himself and his sister without having to resort to thievery like had had to do before the war. And though LeBeau had offered to help with the rent, Newkirk had refused, determined to handle this on his own at last.

And now, Lady Luck finally seemed to be smiling down on Peter Newkirk.

"Fish and chips are on the table, Peter," Mavis called from her room as she fixed her hair. "If you want anything else, you'll 'ave to make it yourself."

"That'll be enough. Once Louis gets 'ere, we won't be eating fish and chips again until after 'e leaves…"

"That's because 'e is a man what knows good eats," she replied. "That's another plus, that is! I can't believe I never thought of 'im sooner!"

"You do realize that Louis 'as other birds, right?" Newkirk pointed out, beginning to tear ravenously into the fish and chips. "Last time I talked to 'im, 'e was still trying to choose which one of them to go steady with."

"Well, as long as 'e 'asn't chosen yet, I've still got a chance! A true romantic won't look at another girl when 'e as one by 'is side."

"Look, just do me one favor," Newkirk said. "When 'e gets 'ere tomorrow, don't tell 'im about the arrangements of you going with 'im to the reunion. Let me be the one to warn—I mean… tell 'im."

"I will not dignify that with a reply," she insisted. "Forget about me; you need to tidy up the place!"

"Oh, leave off!" the corporal replied. "Louis is me little mate; 'e's not going to be coming around 'ere to judge me by 'ow out-of-place everything is. You know 'e's like a brother to me. And after five ruddy years in Stalag 13 with barracks inspections every other day, the both of us prefer keeping things out of order!"

Mavis clammed up now, focusing on removing the ribbons she had tied into her short, brown hair. She always walked on eggshells around her brother whenever his time in Stalag 13 came into the conversation; he reacted differently to it every time. On some days, he was annoyed and angry, while on other days, he would be regretful. And there were some occasions, like the current moment, where he'd bring it up into the conversation almost casually—there were even times he seemed proud, though Mavis wasn't sure as to what he was proud of.

She had often asked him, of course, about what had happened while he was there. His letters to her had been her only contact with him for five years—giving her snapshots of what must be going on. In one letter, he had mentioned singing and performing in a show; in another, he had been cursing a girl named Gretel. But one thing had always been constant in his letters—his praise and admiration for the friends he had made. First, it had been just LeBeau. Then, once the United States had entered the war, he started talking about American friends—a staff sergeant who seemed to be the most intelligent person Newkirk had ever met, a colonel who had the wildest imagination he had ever seen, and a young tech sergeant who drove Newkirk half-mad at times, but whom he admired just the same.

Newkirk had never divulged more than that. All he would say when asked about what happened in Stalag 13 was that he had only made it through those five years because of the others. Mavis, naturally, assumed that he was referring to moral support.

She never would have guessed the truth, nor would she have guessed that this secret part of her brother's life would soon be returning to him.


	2. Reunion and Revival

There were times it seemed to Newkirk that he had known LeBeau longer than the seven years they had been friends. Waiting for him to arrive on the bus from Eastbourne, where would have arrived after going across the Channel, was one of those times—the Frenchman debarking from the bus was the elder brother he never had.

"Welcome back, little mate," Newkirk said, drawing his arm around the Frenchman as they walked back towards the Englishman's apartment.

"It is good to see you again, _mon pote_," LeBeau said. "How have you been? I have hardly seen you since you told me you had got a new job at the theatre."

"Life's been busy," Newkirk admitted. "But it brings money, so I can't complain. And working with Flood is always interesting; I expect we'll see 'im at the RAF reunion."

"Speaking of the reunion, you will never guess what I found!" LeBeau exclaimed. "Look at this!"

He pulled a bottle of wine from the bag he was carrying.

"Blimey, that looks like one of ours," Newkirk said, his eyes widening as he took it in his hand.

"That is exactly what it is," LeBeau said, with a smile. "It is from our first batch—remember? We made half a dozen bottles the time a bunch of American fliers came through—they had brought all of those grapes they had found as provisions."

"Yeah, that's right…" Newkirk said, smirking. "And you and I convinced them that the grapes wouldn't keep, so we'd turn them into raisins for them to take back. Blimey, it's a good thing they soon forgot about them. We probably would've gotten away with 'iding what we were doing from the others if the Guv'nor 'adn't noticed that our feet were red…"

"And after it had aged and we proceeded to use it, we lost the last bottle, remember?" LeBeau asked. "We thought one of the others had taken it."

"Where did you find it, then?" Newkirk asked.

"In one of my cooking pots; it was an old one, which I had set aside after Schultz got me another one," LeBeau said. "I had taken it back to France and only opened it the other day in the hopes that I could clean it up and use it again. And there was the bottle. I say we open this after we come back from the RAF reunion and remember what _really_ happened in Stalag 13."

"I'm all for that, little mate," Newkirk said, as they approached the siblings' apartment. "Mind the carpet when you come in."

"_Quoi_?"

This was followed by a yelp as LeBeau tripped over the loose part of the carpet; if Newkirk hadn't been keeping his arm around him, the Frenchman would've taken a spill.

"I told you that thing was dangerous!" Mavis chided, coming out of her room in her new evening gown. "Maybe now you'll 'ave it mended!" She smiled at LeBeau. "'allo, Louis."

"_Enchanté_," he replied, returning her smile. "Is that a new gown?"

"It is," she said, pleased that he had noticed. "I'll be wearing it for the reunion."

"Oh, you are coming, too?" LeBeau asked.

"Ah, yes," Newkirk said, before Mavis could reply. "Me old mate Roger fancies 'er, you know. You remember Roger, don't you?"

"Roger? Oh, right—that friend of yours who tried to stand on his head on a barstool after he had a bit too much that one time…" LeBeau recalled.

"That's Roger," Newkirk agreed, ignoring the put-out look on his sister's face. "And speaking of barstools, 'ow about we all 'ead down to the Red Lion for a swift 'alf?"

Mavis folded her arms, decidedly not amused.

"I think I'll pass," she said, retreating to her room to change back.

Newkirk sighed as she stalked off. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

Newkirk managed to get Mavis to promise not to bring up her reunion arrangements until he deemed it was ready—and even then insisting that it would be better coming from him. LeBeau was aware of the fact that they were arguing about something throughout the week, but, thinking that it didn't concern him, he decided to stay out of it. He also did what he did best—preparing dishes that quickly made the siblings forget about their arguments.

The evening of the reunion had come after several days of good food and evenings out on the town. The two corporals were in their dress uniforms outside the banquet hall, arguing over who was going to pay for the cab as Mavis folded her arms and waited.

"Why don't you each pay 'alf of the blooming fare?" she asked, as the flustered driver stared at them.

The corporals exchanged glances and went with the idea as another cab pulled up.

"Oi, Peter!" Roger exclaimed. He got out of the second cab with a girl on his arm. "Philip and James said that they're going to be a little late. You've met Evelyn before, right?"

"I thought you were going with Mavis?" LeBeau asked, puzzled.

"Eh? I thought she was going with you…" Roger said. "She kept going on about it that night she found out about the reunion."

LeBeau blinked in confusion before narrowing his eyes and turning to the Newkirks; Mavis's gaze was shifting in the same way her brother's was.

"Pierre…"

"I didn't come up with it; it was all 'er!" Newkirk exclaimed, pointing at his sister.

"You were the one who told 'im that Roger was going with me!" Mavis said.

"I didn't say that; all I said was that 'e fancied you!"

Evelyn now turned to Roger with a suspicious expression on her face, who quickly led her inside the banquet hall before anything else slipped out.

"Louis, I swear that I all 'ad planned was to 'ave you come along," Newkirk promised. "She 'ad just come off of a bad relationship—"

"So bad that it lasted only three ruddy hours…" she added, folding her arms again.

"And she wanted to spend the evening with a bloke who still believed in 'debonair chivalry,' as she put it," Newkirk said. "She was very specific in saying that the French are the last great romantics still left, and when she heard that you were coming, she…" He shrugged his shoulders, helplessly.

LeBeau rolled his eyes, and headed inside, followed by the Newkirks.

"I knew you were up to something," the Frenchman said, as they wandered into the banquet hall. "She is just like you—always looking around when something is making you nervous—!"

"Louis! Peter!"

The voice called to them from across the room—a familiar voice they both knew very well, but hadn't expected to hear tonight.

"_Andrew_?" Newkirk asked, stunned.

He and LeBeau both stared as Carter dashed across the room to them; several people had to get out of the excited sergeant's way. Once the shock of seeing him passed, the two corporals greeted him warmly, and they all began to talk at once.

"André, we have missed you!"

"I've missed you guys, too; I've been waiting for this ever since I heard about it!"

"Blimey, Andrew, you got an invitation, too?"

"No, not exactly; Colonel Hogan got the invite, and we came as his guests!"

"_Le Colonel_ is here?"

"Oi, who do you mean by 'we'—you mean the others are 'ere, too?"

"Yeah, they're right back there!" Carter said. "We were hoping you two would show up! Colonel Hogan had a feeling that you would bring Louis. Oh, and you're Mavis, aren't you? How do you do, Ma'am?"

Mavis glanced at her brother with a baffled expression. She had seen Carter on one occasion, when the Heroes had arrived in London after Stalag 13 had been liberated, but she had been so distracted by seeing her brother again, she hadn't really paid attention to him. She gave him a polite smile now, however, and shook his hand.

"Come on," Carter was saying. "Colonel Hogan and the others want to talk to you, too!"

Newkirk's head was spinning slightly as Carter led him and the others across the room. It seemed so surreal, but Newkirk soon realized that he should've expected that Hogan would've been at the reunion, as he had been attached to the RAF.

And then, they saw him—Hogan was deep in conversation with Group Captain Roberts, as a woman in an evening gown was beside the American colonel, facing away from the corporals. Just off to the side, Sergeant Flood was talking to Kinch, Baker, and Olsen. Carter was, apparently, still leery about being around Flood after the footlocker incident, which had been why he had been by himself, ready to notice when the corporals had arrived.

Kinch was the first to notice that Carter had found the corporals, and he politely interrupted Hogan's conversation to alert him to it before greeting them, along with the other sergeants. The colonel then turned to face them.

"Newkirk, LeBeau, good to see you again," he said, with a smile. _So far, so good_. "You know Group Captain Roberts and Miss Monet, of course."

The woman now turned to face them, revealing herself to be Tiger, who greeted them all warmly.

Roberts greeted them next, followed by Flood, who was a familiar face to Mavis, having seen her frequently when she came by the magic theatre.

"Well," said Roberts. "I suspect you have much to catch up on; I had best leave you to that. Come along, Flood."

The sergeant looked at him, baffled, but, sensing that it was an order, he obeyed.

"Ah, _oui_," said Tiger. She turned to Mavis. "We should let the boys talk among themselves for some time, _non_? Come; we shall have a drink."

"Oh… Thank you," Mavis said, not sure that she really wanted to go. But she did realize that her brother would be more likely to deal with his memories with the others than with her. Casting another glance at Newkirk and LeBeau, she followed Tiger.

"It is absolutely incredible, seeing you all again," LeBeau said, even before the women were out of earshot. "I never expected it—not even for a moment."

"We didn't expect it, either," Olsen said. "Colonel Hogan called us up and told us about the reunion. He said he wanted to see all of us again, and since you two were likely to come, he figured that this was the best way."

"Colonel, what's the score?" Kinch asked, surprising everyone except Hogan himself.

"What are you talking about?" Baker asked.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," Kinch said. "But the colonel certainly went through a lot of trouble to get us here together. There must have been an easier way."

"True, but it would've attracted a lot more attention," Hogan said, with a smirk. "You're as perceptive as ever, Kinch."

"I had a feeling, and it only grew after Roberts and Tiger cleared out as quickly as they did," the staff sergeant said. "It seemed just a little too—"

"I say, there!" another familiar voice called to them—one that they weren't at all pleased to hear. "A pleasure to see you chaps again!"

"Cor blimey, I didn't expect to see 'im again, either…" Newkirk grumbled, as Crittendon strode over to them.

Hogan's face was now set into a death glare, which the approaching officer was oblivious to.

"It really is a proper reunion with all of you here, what?" Crittendon said. "So, then… How are the victorious chaps?"

"Trying to reminisce, if you don't mind," Hogan bluffed.

"Ah, yes," Crittendon said, lowering his voice. "I suppose it's still all hush-hush, what?"

"Have you ever heard an officer say 'hush-hush' before?" Carter asked, in an undertone.

Newkirk quietly snarked and shook his head, now fully realizing just how much he had missed having Carter around.

"Well, we certainly don't want any extra ears listening in," Crittendon said, inviting himself into the conversation. "I shall have to tell my lady friend to entertain herself for a few minutes while we have this talk. Good lady, I think you should…" He trailed off, realizing that the space behind him was unoccupied. "Oh, dear; I do believe we got separated in the crowd…"

"Well, then, you'd better find her," Hogan said, hastily.

"Oh, yes, Sir," said Newkirk. "In a crowd like this, you might never find the bird again until the end of the party. In fact, if she doesn't come back 'ere soon, I'm going to go look for me sister!"

"Yes, I suppose you've got a point there, Corporal…" Crittendon said. "I say, it is odd that you're still a corporal, what? You mean to tell me that you haven't been promoted—and the rest of you, for that matter?"

"The girl," LeBeau reminded him, through gritted teeth.

"What? Oh, yes! The girl! Keep at it, Chaps; you'll get your promotions yet!"

He slapped LeBeau on the back, nearly sending the little Frenchman flying. The chef threw a French curse at Crittendon's retreating back, who didn't seem to hear it.

"Not for nothing, Sir, but why is it that we 'aven't received any promotions?" Newkirk asked Hogan. "I keep 'aving to put up with it; me mates all received promotions to sergeants."

"_Oui_, and my elder brother, Jean-Philippe, has become a lieutenant!" LeBeau said. "You should see the way the girls fawn over him!"

"Oh, that's nothing," Carter said. "You remember my cousin, Angry Rabbit with Thorn in Cottontail? He outranks me, and he's _younger_ than me!"

Baker and Olsen started to voice their complaints, as well, but Kinch remained silent.

"All right, all right," said Hogan. "I know you're all upset about this. And if you'll notice, I'm still a colonel."

"Can I assume that this has something to do with why we're all here now?" Kinch asked.

"You can, and you'd be right," Hogan said. "Our promotions are currently—and temporarily—being withheld." He paused for a minute to let the men get their complaints off of their chests. "Are you aware of what's been going on in Eastern Europe?"

A round of nods replied the colonel.

"We aren't going to war again, are we?" Carter asked, his eyes widening.

"We hope not," said Hogan. "But our intelligence sources are beginning to notice an increase in Communist agents attempting to gather information. Long story short, our names were brought up as a possible counterintelligence operation by none other than General Barton." He smirked at the men's stunned expressions. "General Barton hasn't forgotten about how we freed him from the Germans in the last war, and he has the confidence that we could easily pick up useful information… if we're all on board, of course. The general's orders were very specific on that—he wants all seven of us in on this, if it's possible.

"And before you all agree on anything, let me tell you what it means. First of all, it means you'll be waiting for those promotions for a lot longer; back out now, and you'll get them now, though it's likely that the true story about Stalag 13 will have to be divulged in the process. Second, it means you will need to learn basic communication in some of the Eastern European languages, and you will need to thoroughly learn Russian; that includes the Cyrillic script, so it's not going to be like German at all. Third, it means that you'll need to get extended leaves from your places of work for going on missions. You'll be getting paid on a mission by mission basis, so you don't have to worry about lost salary.

"Lastly, there is the ever-present element of danger involved. I know it's nothing new to you, but these missions will involve the usual justified robberies, impersonations, spying—the whole nine yards. And once you've learned Russian, there's a very good chance that we'll be used for infiltration missions in the east. And in the event that war does break out again, we're going back to spending all of our time in enemy territory. I don't need to tell you what's going to happen to our life insurance rates once we accept—_if_ we accept."

"We wouldn't be working alone, would we?" Baker asked.

"Not at all; we're going to be working with other intelligence agencies, as well as anti-communist agents in the east. And we'll be aided by some old friends; Tiger and Group Captain Roberts are in on it, to name a couple—we'll be making contact with other old acquaintances as we go along. Roberts was the one who helped orchestrate this reunion as a cover."

"Why'd he have to invite Crittendon?" Carter blurted out, prompting the others to chuckle.

"I've already received telegrams from our Russian contact, Arctic Fox," Hogan went on. "I don't know who they are, but Arctic Fox is going to be our link if we sign on—able to get us in and out of Russia as required, and helping us on missions in the west until then."

The men all exchanged glanced with each other, weighing their options.

"Well, Colonel," said Kinch. "I'd be honored to serve as your second in command again."

"And this time, I'll make sure the brass doesn't order you to some other position," Hogan promised, shaking his hand.

Carter raised his hand next.

"You know, Sir, I was thinking… It's getting pretty dull back there, studying for the pharmacy test and everything. I'm really much better at… this sort of stuff, anyway, and—"

"Glad to have you aboard, Carter," Hogan said, as Newkirk obligingly covered the sergeant's mouth to keep him from going on.

It didn't take much longer for Baker and Olsen to agree; it was soon down to the two corporals. Newkirk folded his arms, still pondering. On the one hand, he liked being able to make a safe living for himself and his sister. On the other hand, he couldn't stand the thought of his friends risking their lives without him there to help…

"_Mon Colonel_, it was indeed an honor to serve under you," LeBeau said, at last. He smiled. It was true that France was not in immediate danger now, but he still felt obligated to help the friends who had helped France in the last war. "I am sure it will be an honor to do so again."

"And I'm sure it will be an honor to have you in my command again," the colonel replied. "So that just leaves us with one more…"

Newkirk rolled his own eyes as the others' turned theirs in his direction.

"Well, Sir, you did lay out the risks involved 'ere. I'm the only provider for me sister, you know, and… Oh, Cor, not this again!" he exclaimed, as the others all gave him the "we're all in; you'd better come along, too" look that he had received countless times before. "Oh, all right; I'll never get another ruddy wink of sleep from worrying about you lot anyway! But I just 'ave one request, Guv—no more dressing me up as a little old lady in basic black!"

"Request granted. How about chartreuse?"

"What? Colonel—!"

Carter burst out laughing as LeBeau gave Newkirk a good-natured punch on the arm.

"Then it's official," Hogan said, passing drinks around. "The Unsung Heroes are back in business."

"_Vive le Père-Ours_," LeBeau said, raising his glass.

"To Papa Bear," Kinch echoed, as he and the other NCOs raised their glasses.

"And to the operation," Hogan finished, raising his.

"I say!" Crittendon called to them, utterly ruining the moment. "I found her, Chaps!"

"Rodney, Darling, I told you I was trying to get a drink," the familiar female voice purred. "Could you please get us a pair?"

Hogan's good mood had diminished upon Crittendon's return; now, it had vanished completely. LeBeau, on the other hand, perked up immediately.

"Why, of course!" Crittendon exclaimed. "Chaps, say hello to Miss Marya, won't you? I'll go and fetch us some drinks!"

"Ah, at long last! Hogan, Darling, it has been so long!" Marya exclaimed, holding her arms out to him once Crittendon had gone.

"What are you doing here?" Hogan asked.

"You are not pleased to see me?" she asked, feigning disappointment.

"I am, _chéri_!" LeBeau exclaimed, running into her outstretched arms.

"Oh, no you don't…" Newkirk said, pulling him away. "You try that, little mate, and you'll be a dead man!"

"My Marya would not harm me!"

"We can debate that, but I was referring to Mavis!"

The East Ender glanced over his shoulder to check on her; she was, thankfully, still in conversation with Tiger.

"I am warning you, Pierre; let me go, or else!"

"Or else… what?"

"Or else you will be having bouillabaisse for your lunch tomorrow!"

"Knock it off, you two," said Hogan. "I'm still waiting for an answer to my question."

"Why, Hogan, have you not guessed?" Marya said, with a coy smile. "General Barton said that you would be contacting Arctic Fox in London, _da_?"

Hogan shut his eyes, his face a perfect "Why me?" look.

"You are Arctic Fox?" LeBeau exclaimed.

"But of course, Little One!" she purred, now wrapping her arms around him, much to Newkirk's dismay; the Englishman frantically tried to stand so that he would be blocking them from Mavis's view.

"All right, all right," said Hogan, trying to break them up. "So, you're Arctic Fox. Prove it."

Marya sighed, presenting an affidavit from General Barton himself.

"You will see that it is my name he has written there, and his signature, which is genuine. You may call him up and confirm it."

"I believe you," LeBeau insisted.

"You would," Newkirk muttered.

"And I'll have to have a word with the general concerning his discretion," Hogan sighed.

"There is also this from him—for you, Darling, but concerning all of you," she added, handing him a sealed envelope.

Hogan took a look, going over the general's instructions.

"He says a telegram will arrive at my hotel room tomorrow morning containing coded instructions for our first new assignment," he said. "Newkirk, do you know anywhere secure for us to meet?"

"I know me flat is secure, Sir; I can convince Mavis to go shopping for the afternoon."

"And I can make a wonderful meal for you all," LeBeau added. "With one of the first bottles of wine Pierre and I made in Stalag 13."

"Good; we'll convene there for lunch and the mission briefing at 1300 hours tomorrow. Right now, though, Olsen and Baker are to report back to the States to give him confirmation of contact in person," Hogan went on. "A special plane is waiting for you in Heathrow to take you two back as soon as this reunion is over; you'll be working on the mission from that end—General Barton will give you instructions when you report."

"My instructions, alas, are to return to Russia for the time being, but I will see you all again very soon!" Marya purred.

"I can hardly wait…" the colonel replied, sardonically.

"I must go at once; do tell Rodney that I apologize for leaving so soon," she added. She paused to give LeBeau a kiss. "Until next time, Little One."

LeBeau looked as though he was about to melt as he watched Marya go. He was still in a trancelike state for some time after Marya's departure, prompting Newkirk to swat him with his hat several times. When this proved fruitless, Newkirk sighed and wandered off to get something to eat, barely noticing where he was going. A brunette woman shrieked quietly as he stormed past her.

"Cor, sorry," he apologized to the young lady, who was dressed in a red evening gown.

No need to apologize, Señor," she said. "You clearly have much on your mind."

Newkirk shrugged, but took note of her accent.

"Blimey, you don't sound or look like you were in the RAF," he mused.

"How very perceptive, Señor; I am a reporter. I worked for a paper in Madrid until after the war, and then I received a job here," she said. "My employer told me that this RAF reunion would be a good story to cover. Perhaps I could interview you, Señor; some brave tales of heroism would make the story more attractive."

"As attractive as you, you mean?" Newkirk complimented. "Sorry, Luv; I spent most of the war in a Luft Stalag."

"Oh, you poor man…" she said. "Forgive me; I will ask someone else."

"Right-o. Don't be a stranger, Miss…"

"Sandiego," she said. "Josefina Sandiego. And you are…?"

"Corporal Peter Newkirk," he replied.

"Ah," she said, smiling. "_Hasta luego_, Pedro."

"See you, Josie," he cracked back, heading to the table to get some food and talk to LeBeau and Carter, who were both there already (LeBeau complaining about the state of the food, and Carter telling him that he should consider it a good thing that he was attending a party for once instead of catering for it).

Newkirk was soon so engrossed in conversation with them that he did not notice Miss Sandiego discreetly write his name in her small notebook, followed by a single sentence:

_Aprenda más acerca de él_.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hogan's reference to Kinch not getting transferred is my own way of explaining his absence in the final season—my theory is that London needed his expertise and endlessly wheedled Hogan to send him back until he finally did (I actually plan to write this fic if I can get a better grip on writing for Kinch). Also, I'm not at all hiding the fact that Josefina is a character to beware—her surname should be an indication for those who are familiar with my other fandoms…_


	3. Springheel Jacks and Mission Briefings

_Author's Note: In regards to the unsigned reviews that I can't reply to otherwise, Josefina is indeed the grandmother of Carmen Sandiego; I have plans for a later fic involving confrontations between the Heroes and the V.I.L.E. organization. And in regards to Tiger or any other romances… I am pretty much the anti-romance writer. I happen to think Tiger is an awesome character, which is why I had her at the reunion. Anything resembling romance, particularly the Marya/LeBeau/Mavis triangle is completely meant to be tongue-in-cheek and not the main focus of this story at all._

* * *

The remainder of the evening was spent reminiscing about old missions, peppered with trying to avoid Crittendon, who was looking for Marya.

"Pity," Newkirk mused. "They'd have made the perfect couple…"

This garnered a few choice words from LeBeau, who stated that Marya did not deserve such a cruel fate—no woman did, other than Gretel, perhaps. Newkirk had to agree with that last sentiment, though he wasn't sure he'd wish Gretel on Crittendon after all.

He sighed as he introduced his colleagues to his old schoolmates, pausing to enjoy the moment as the British James met the American James. As he stared at these two sets of friends, both of which had played very important roles in his life, he soon came to realize that, for the rest of his days, he would be living two lives. There would always be the part of him that was the proud leader of the Dartboard Six—after all the years he had spent with them, he couldn't leave that part of himself behind. And then there were his colleagues from the war—his surrogate family. He couldn't deny that one of the underlying reasons he had signed on with their new endeavors was that he knew he would enjoy working with them again. He had missed them quite a lot—though he would never admit that out loud.

As the evening wrapped up at last, and the reunion attendees began to disperse, Baker and Olsen headed for Heathrow as they had been ordered to do, while Hogan and Kinch prepared to return to the hotel. Carter was preparing to go, as well, but Newkirk put his foot down. Insisting that his friend return with him and LeBeau to the apartment, the Englishman refused to take no for an answer.

Mavis didn't protest to this, though she assumed that her brother's companions would end up being as loud as the other members of the Dartboard Six when they got together. She made her own arrangements to stay with a schoolmate of her own for a couple of days who lived right down the hall and had opened her door to Mavis whenever she wished to stop by. It was for the best, she decided; the evening was not the romantic one she had been hoping for. This, of course, ended up solving the problem of convincing her to leave the next morning, so Newkirk decided not to protest too much.

Conversations between the trio went well into the night—concerning old missions and how they would deal with new ones. The next morning, after breakfast had been finished and as Newkirk led them to the magic theatre to show them around the place, the conversations continued.

"You really think you can impersonate a Russian general, Andrew?" Newkirk was asking, as they walked.

"Sure, I don't see why not," Carter replied. "I learned how to impersonate a German one, didn't I? Once you learn the language fluently enough, it's all a matter of acting like you belong there."

"I know a little Russian from talking to Marya," said LeBeau. "Do you think _le Colonel_ will let me impersonate a general this time?"

"If they can find a ruddy short one for you to switch places with," Newkirk countered. "And 'ere we are!"

He opened the theatre doors and ushered them inside. LeBeau was muttering something in French; ignoring it, Newkirk rolled his eyes.

"So this is where you work, huh?" Carter said. "What exactly do you do?"

"It's like I told Louis; I do me own parlor tricks and 'elp Flood with 'is act. If they ask, I 'elp out others; I usually enjoy working with Warwick the Whisperer—'is act is communicating with animals and doing all sorts of tricks with them. There's one other bloke who asks for me 'elp a lot; no one knows 'is real name, but we all call 'im by 'is stage name: The Great Pandora."

"And that's a guy who named himself Pandora?" Carter asked. "He's got his Greek myths mixed up—Pandora was a girl!"

"No one told him, apparently," LeBeau mused.

"You know, 'e does come across as a little barmy," Newkirk said. "Apparently, 'e just showed up there one day during the war and started working 'ere."

"All kind of mysterious, isn't it?" Carter asked.

LeBeau and Newkirk exchanged glances.

"We received this assignment just in time," LeBeau said, with a smirk. "He still has the mind of a spy."

Newkirk suppressed a snark and led them backstage.

"I've got me own little dressing room back 'ere," he said. "It's one of the smaller ones, but, in exchange, I get a bit more money. There—look at that." He pointed to the small, wooden sign on the door with his name on it.

He unlocked it, revealing the small but well-furnished room. A tuxedo hung in a small closet, and several bags of potato chips, which Newkirk referred to as his "crisps cache," were stored in various hiding places in the room. In a large cage that was suspended from the ceiling were three white doves. They cooed as Newkirk approached them, happy to see him again.

"I'll 'ave to speak to Warwick about looking after them while we're gone," he realized, taking the cage with him. "Come on; you've got to meet the others."

"Well, we already know Flood," said Carter.

"True, but you need to meet Warwick," said Newkirk, knocking on his colleague's door.

There was the sound of flapping wings, and the door opened of its own accord—or so it seemed. A large hyacinth macaw flew from the door handle and back to its perch.

"Hey, that's neat!" Carter exclaimed. "I wonder how long it took him to train it to do that…"

He paused as he noticed that there were other animals in the room. A Siamese cat watched him from the dresser in front of the mirror with its blue eyes, and a Springer spaniel looked up at the arrivals lazily. Several more macaws, along with smaller parrots, peered at them from hanging perches, one engaging in acrobatics to show off.

"And he works with all of these?" Carter asked.

"Not just these," Newkirk said, hanging the doves' cage on a free hook. "Until recently, 'e worked with a white tiger, too. Just don't mention Pandora in front of 'im, otherwise, 'e gets furious. Pandora commandeered 'is tiger for the 'turn the lady into a tiger' trick, and Warwick is still extremely upset about that. Poor bloke is pulling a lot of strings to get another exotic animal for the act…"

"And it's not going well," a new voice said, entering the room. "Hallo, Peter. Are these those two war chums you keep going on about?"

"'Allo, Warwick. Yeah, they are—Louis and Andrew. I was telling them all about you."

The Frenchman and the American exchanged greetings with the animal whisperer.

"So, I take it you weren't able to get another animal?" Newkirk went on.

"I must have called every blooming zoo in southern England; they aren't willing to part with any of their animals, let alone a big cat," he said. "Maybe I should go for a chimpanzee."

"There's a great chimpanzee in the Hammelburg Zoo in Bavaria," Carter said, almost immediately. "His name's Freddy; it wouldn't hurt to ask."

Newkirk bit back a smirk, recalling the impish chimp that had somehow acquired the rank of sergeant.

"I can vouch for that chimp, Warwick," the corporal said. "If you 'ave any luck getting 'im, let me know. Listen; I'm wondering if you'll look after me doves for some time. I got a second job, but I still want to work 'ere, so…"

"Say no more," Warwick said. "I'll treat them as though they were my own—"

"Oi, look at this!" came Sergeant Flood's voice. Holding a newspaper in his hand, he burst into the room and caused the annoyed Siamese cat to flee from its spot on the dresser and scare the daylights out of the Springer spaniel, who yelped as the cat bounced off of him; the spaniel ran to LeBeau, who spoke softly in French to comfort the dog. The macaws squawked angrily at Flood, irked by the disturbance, and one Amazon parrot chided, "Bad boy! Bad boy!"

The sergeant ignored them, showing the assembled group the story in the paper.

"'Violent robbery in Hyde Park,'" Newkirk read. "When was this?"

"At one in the morning," Flood said. "According to this, the lady who was attacked said she was attacked by a man in an RAF dress uniform who was able to leap over a wall in a single bound to make his getaway!"

"Blimey, some bloke must've gotten smashed at the reunion last night and robbed this bird," Newkirk murmured, looking at the paper. "But 'ow did they jump over a wall? Was the bird tipsy, too?"

"Not at all," said Flood. "She was completely sober when she made 'er story. They're calling this thief the Springheel Jack II."

Newkirk let out a low whistle.

"What's a Springheel Jack?" Carter asked.

"It's a fire-breathing, 'uman-like creature what could jump like 'e 'ad springs in 'is shoes," Newkirk said. "The sightings were all in the 1800s, and the thing was never caught."

"And so they think this was someone trying to imitate the Springheel Jack?" LeBeau asked. "Or is it its offspring?"

"They aren't sure," Newkirk said, finishing the article. "If you ask me, it was a drunken prank. The bloke will turn 'imself in once 'e sobers up."

In all honesty, Newkirk couldn't be bothered with it; as far as he was concerned, it couldn't possibly concern him and what he had to do with his new assignment.

He didn't know how wrong he was.

* * *

After touring the theatre, Newkirk realized that they still had quite a while before the appointed lunch hour. Knowing that Roger and Philip usually spent the latter half of the morning playing cricket in the park, the corporal decided to invite his guests to go and watch the match, as he usually did. While Carter immediately accepted Newkirk's offer, LeBeau politely declined, insisting that he needed the rest of the morning to ensure that the lunch he had in mind would reach perfection.

Having received the keys from Newkirk, the chef headed back and soon absorbed himself in preparing the meal. It was like old times, he realized, cooking for his best friends—ensuring that they had the strength to handle the missions that would come their way. It was a thankless task at times, particularly when he had to contend with the petty complaints, but he knew that it was one that was just as important as any others; a well-fed team was more efficient and quick-thinking than a hungry one.

He was jarred from his thoughts as he heard a knock on the apartment door. He hadn't expected them back so soon, but when he opened the door, he was even more surprised to see that it wasn't Newkirk and Carter, but a woman.

"_Bonjour, Mademoiselle_," he said. "Can I help you?"

The lady looked at the number on the apartment door.

"I'm sorry; is this the apartment of Peter Newkirk?" she asked. "I am a reporter, and I wished to speak with him…"

LeBeau now recognized her as the woman who had briefly spoken to Newkirk the previous night. He was now highly curious as to why she was interested in interviewing him, as well as how she had gotten her hands on his address.

"This is the apartment of Monsieur Newkirk," LeBeau said. "However, he is not in at the present moment."

"I see," she said. "It seems I made a wasted trip. But if you can tell him that Señorita Sandiego came by, I will appreciate it." She cleared her throat several times. "Pardon, Señor, could I trouble you for a drink of water?"

"Not at all," LeBeau said, and he went to get it for her. In truth, he was glad for an excuse to get away from her; something about her made him uneasy, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was.

He paused for a moment, glass of water in hand, as he realized that he was starting to act the same way Newkirk did when Marya was concerned. But that was different, wasn't it? Marya was on their side—General Barton said so! This strange woman was exactly that—strange.

Pulling himself together, he took the glass of water back to the doorway, where the lady was still standing. Grateful, she drank the water, leaving a set of lip-prints on the glass from her freshly-applied lipstick. She handed the glass back to him, thanked him, and left soon after, leaving the Frenchman to stare at the retreating lady and shake his head, baffled.

He soon returned to his work in the kitchen. As more time passed, he soon forgot about the woman, and was eventually putting the finished meal out onto the table when he heard Newkirk and Carter arguing outside the door. LeBeau blinked, highly curious and looking to find out exactly what had happened.

"I was just trying to get into the spirit of the game!" Carter was saying. "We do exactly the same thing when we're at baseball games."

"Cricket is not baseball!" Newkirk countered, opening the door. "And don't forget to mind the carpet when you come in."

"Mind the wha—? Oof!" Carter yelped, as he found himself sprawled on the floor.

The two corporals exchanged glances and helped the sergeant back on his feet.

"Still the same old André," LeBeau mused.

"I blame jet lag for that," Carter said, dusting himself off so as to regain his dignity.

"And I suppose you're going blame jet lag for what you did at the game?" Newkirk asked. He turned to LeBeau. "Louis, tell 'im. Tell 'im that cricket is a dignified sport, and that you do not yell, 'Heeeeeeey, batter, batter, batter!' at the batsmen!"

LeBeau burst out laughing, "You mean he really did that?"

"And 'ad the gall to refer to a beautiful six as a 'grand slam,' or something like that," Newkirk added.

"I told you, I was trying to get into the spirit of the game!" Carter said.

"To get into the spirit of the game, one must be familiar with the terminology!" Newkirk said. "You wouldn't see me calling a ruddy 'ome run a six if I went to one of your precious baseball games!"

"Gee, I didn't even think you'd _go_ to a baseball game…"

"That's an argument for another time," the East Ender countered.

"Looks like we just missed something," Hogan's voice came from across the hall.

"Right on time," Newkirk commented on his arrival. "Oh, Colonel, when you come in, don't forget to mind the—"

He was cut off as Hogan stumbled on the carpet and nearly tripped; the colonel managed to regain his balance just in time.

"…Carpet…" Newkirk finished, sheepishly.

"You know, Newkirk, you'd better get that repaired before someone other than us trips and ends up suing you," Kinch advised, gracefully striding over the ruined part of the carpet.

"I will, I will," the corporal said. He turned to Hogan. "Did the telegram come in, Sir?"

"It did," Hogan said. "I'm looking forward to discussing this over lunch. LeBeau, what have you got for us?"

"Ratatouille for starters, _coq au vin_ for the main course, and _café liégeois_ for dessert; I figured a coffee dessert would be best to prevent jet lag from interfering with the mission," the Frenchman said.

"Always thinking," Hogan said, with approval. As LeBeau served out the meal, he drew out the telegram. "Right, here's the score. For phase one of the mission, General Barton wants us to investigate a recent string of thefts at the Schroeder Corporation. It's a very prestigious company that works to develop revolutionary vehicles and other advancements in electronics."

"Schroeder?" Carter asked. "But… that name sounds…"

"German?" Hogan finished. "Yeah; their headquarters are in Heidelberg. Several known communist agents were seen around the area before and after the robberies took place. The head of the company, a Mr. Georg von Schroeder, has all the details, including descriptions of suspicious people caught loitering near his building."

"But, Sir…" said Newkirk. "You mean to tell me that we're actually going back to Germany?"

"And this von Schroeder character—how do we know he is trustworthy?" LeBeau asked.

"Before you go jumping to conclusions, Georg von Schroeder temporarily shut down his entire company once the German army started growing in the 30s. He had his employees either go into hiding or flee the country, while he took all of his company's engineering secrets and headed for England to help our side during the war. I remember once that Hochstetter mentioned that there was a price on his head."

"And after the war, he came back to Heidelberg and reopened his business?" Kinch asked.

"That's the general idea," Hogan said. "We need to meet with him and do a little investigating into who has been stealing his technology."

"Go _back_ to Germany, after all we did to get out?" Newkirk asked again. "Blimey, Sir; I know I agreed for the missions and all that, but…"

"Hey, it won't be all bad," Carter said. "It's not like Hochstetter's out on the streets, waiting to throw us all into one of his cells."

"Actually, Hochstetter's the one in the cell," Hogan said. "He's serving a sentence in a Heidelberg prison for war crimes."

LeBeau applauded at the news, and Newkirk cheered up immensely.

"Well, Guv, if that's the case, then I'd be only too 'appy to go back there," he said. "If for no other reason than to pay a visit to the major, stand back and appreciate 'ow I'm the free man and 'e is the prisoner, and then proceed to thumb me nose at the old fool."

"Save a spot for me; I will join you," LeBeau said. "And _I_ will be the one to dance and step on _his_ toes!"

"I'll do my General von Siedelberg bit—just to rub it in," Carter agreed, with a grin.

"And then we'll tell 'im that _we've_ surrounded the place with a ruddy ring of steel!" Newkirk added.

"Hold it," said Hogan. "We've got more pressing matters while we're there, though we will be visiting Hochstetter. According to General Barton, we have some questions to ask him; apparently, he's been visited by a few communist agents on a regular basis and having long talks with them."

"Why would Hochstetter talk to them?" Kinch asked. "He's against everything they stand for!"

"That's one of the things we need to ask him," Hogan said. "I know he'll never switch to the communist agenda, but there's every chance in the world he'll play along with them long enough to get something he wants. But we need to get to Heidelberg as soon as possible, according to what the telegram says. So, in exactly…"

Hogan trailed off, freezing as he noticed a wire running under the front door of the apartment. He crept over to the torn part of the carpet and lifted it from the floor, revealing the hidden microphone underneath.

Never had silence sounded so ominous than at the present moment.


	4. Heidelberg

All eyes turned to Newkirk, whose eyes began to burn in anger. It was bad enough that the perpetrators had obviously invaded his own home. The fact that they were listening in on his closest friends and putting them in danger enraged him even more.

"If I ever catch the ruddy menace who did this, I'll—"

"Not now, Newkirk," Hogan said, motioning for them to follow the wire outside.

The wire had been cut, ending halfway down the corridor; whoever had been listening in had realized what their sudden silence had meant, and that the perpetrator had quickly cut the wire and escaped.

"We'll have to check with anyone downstairs and see if they saw anyone making a hasty exit," Hogan said. "Newkirk, how long has the carpet been like that?"

The corporal cleared his throat, going slightly red.

"About five weeks, Sir. I've been meaning to let the landlady know; in fact, I'll go do that right now…"

"Forget it; let's just look around for any other bugs."

The subsequent sweep of the apartment resulted in nothing. This seemed to suggest to Hogan that the listening device was a recent job.

"Somebody must have seen us with Marya at the reunion last night and slipped in to plant it," he said, inspecting the microphone. "There isn't a speck of dust on this thing. I think it was planted very recently."

"It couldn't have been during the night; the three of us were here," Carter said. "Either they were in and out before we returned from the reunion, or it happened this morning while we were out."

"Nobody came by between yesterday and today?" asked Kinch.

"Not a soul," Newkirk sighed.

"_Non_; there was someone who came by earlier this morning—a reporter," LeBeau said, recalling Miss Sandiego. "She had been at the reunion yesterday, as well."

"How long was she here for?" Hogan asked, his suspicions beginning to build.

"No more than a minute or two," said LeBeau. "She wanted to talk to Pierre, and left almost immediately after I told her he wasn't in."

"She never left your sight at all?" Hogan prompted.

"Only when I went to get her a glass of water," the Frenchman said. "And that would have been for only ten seconds."

"She'd have had to be a magician like Newkirk to slip that microphone in without you seeing it," Carter mused.

"Or it could be a coincidence; she did want to talk to me about what I experienced during the war," Newkirk said. "I told 'er she wouldn't get any interesting stories, but…" He shrugged. "Guess she couldn't resist me charms."

LeBeau gave him a look and shook his head.

"We'll have to keep an eye on her," Hogan said. "But that can wait until we get back from Heidelberg."

"You mean we're still going?" Carter asked, incredulously. "They heard every word; what if they follow us?"

"I'm going to gamble on reverse psychology," Hogan said. "They're probably expecting us to change our plans now that we know we were overheard. So the best way to throw them off might be to go through with our plans."

"Well, they ain't going to expect that," Newkirk mused. "I certainly didn't…"

"Even if they aren't expecting it, they'll probably keeping tabs on the Schroeder Corporation," Kinch realized. "They'd notice all five of us going in; I think we should keep that part of the mission to two or three people."

"Good point," Hogan agreed. "You and I can handle that part of the mission."

"And you want the three of us to go see Hochstetter?" Carter asked.

"No; I have a few questions for him myself," the colonel said. "Why don't you three visit another old friend in Heidelberg? I bet Schultz would love to see you again—and bring some strudel, if you can whip some up, LeBeau. There's a chance that he might have seen something—new or suspicious faces in town."

"_Oui, Colonel_; we can ask him."

"Good. We'll leave tonight, under the cover of darkness."

* * *

LeBeau spend the remainder of the day preparing dinner, along with the strudel that Hogan had suggested. The idea of making strudel for Schultz was something that the chef had almost forgotten in the two years since the war's end, and he was initially unsure if he would still be able to make a good strudel. But he was pleasantly surprised that the strudel came out perfectly—better, even, since he had access to a better cooking range here.

Newkirk, in the meantime, had been trying to convince Mavis that it wasn't safe for her to return to the apartment, even though he had to take an emergency trip. The baffled young woman didn't understand at all, and while Newkirk wanted nothing more than to tell her what was really going on, he knew that for everyone's sakes, he had to keep her in the dark.

A secret plane at Heathrow had been waiting for them to take them to Heidelberg. General Barton had booked hotel rooms for them in advance for the remainder of the night. The idea of arriving in the dead of night seemed to work; there was no sign of anyone following them.

When morning came, the team split up, leaving at two separate times to avoid attention. Hogan and Kinch soon arrived at the headquarters of Schroder Corporation.

"You have to admit, he's doing fairly well in post-war Germany," Kinch commented, seeing that the grounds and the building itself looked remarkably well-maintained.

"He earned a lot of money working for our side," Hogan said, as they approached his office. He cleared his throat. "Mr. von Schroeder?"

The company president turned, acknowledging them with a nod.

"Glad you could come, Herr Colonel," he said, handing one of two stacks of files to each of the men. "There is no sense in beating around the bush; you are here for the pictures of the suspects who were seen loitering outside—I am sure they are the ones who broke into my electronics department. Not all of them are communist agents—as far as I know. Those who are seem to be working with the free agents."

"Free agents are sometimes the worst," Hogan murmured, going over the photographs of the known communists. General Barton had already briefed him on some of these—not all of them were the sinister figures or femme fatales that one expected; the unassuming appearance of several of these agents was sobering. On the other hand, Hogan hoped that his own crew would pass as unassuming, as well.

"This one looks… interesting, to say the least," Kinch commented, as he went over the free agents' photographs. "He looks like a circus strongman with that build."

Hogan took a look at the picture, recognizing him from another intelligence report.

"He _is_ a circus strongman, when he's not spying for hire," the colonel said. "He goes by the name of The Brute. We might have to try bribing him to our side…"

"Other than money, what do you bribe a strongman with?" Kinch wondered aloud.

"A strongwoman?" Hogan offered.

The staff sergeant chuckled, and even von Schroeder had to bite back a smirk.

"A lot of these faces are familiar," the colonel went on, after some time. "I don't suppose there's any way of confirming that they broke in?"

"I'm afraid not," said the CEO. "The theft itself is most perplexing. I have night watchmen patrolling the building and grounds to deter any potential thieves. The thieves didn't use a truck, and yet we have lost a truckload's worth of equipment. Either they somehow kept sneaking in here on foot night after night until we noticed, or that strongman came in here and managed in hauling all of it off in one night."

"What sort of equipment did they take?" Kinch asked.

"Mainly communication equipment," he said. "But some mechanical equipment has been taken as well."

"Sounds like they're setting up some communication stations—perhaps some sort of spying craft," Kinch concluded.

"So they're just getting started, too…" Hogan mused. "You said that you lost about a truckload's worth of equipment. Do you have an estimate as to the monetary loss?"

"My accountant should be finishing up that inventory," von Schroder said. His eyes glanced to a point behind the two Americans, towards the door of his office. "Ah, and here he is now…"

"Herr von Schroeder, I have here the reports…" a familiar voice began, but trailed off as the speaker apparently noticed the two Americans.

Hogan and Kinch turned back in disbelief, staring at the familiar bald head and monocle-covered eye.

"_Hogan_?" Klink asked, stunned enough to be knocked over with a feather. "And Kinchloe?"

"Ah, you know each other?" von Schroder observed.

"In a manner of speaking, Herr von Schroeder," Klink responded. "These two men…"

"We're old war buddies," Hogan finished for him, hiding his own surprise. He hadn't expected Klink to have bounced back with the Schroeder Corporation, but he supposed that von Schroeder had his reasons for hiring him. "Weren't we, Sir?"

Klink gave Hogan a long, blank stare. The last time he had seen the American was the day of Stalag 13's liberation, watching from afar as Hogan's men celebrated their newfound freedom. He had felt oddly happy for the men; the war would soon be over, and after all of their failed escape attempts, they were finally going home. But he had certainly never expected to see any of them again.

"Well, maybe war buddies was a stretch," Hogan went on, seeing Klink's blank stare. "Truth was, Klink here was our Kommadant during the war—"

"Hogan, are you getting involved in things again?" Klink asked, noticing the photographs that he and Kinch were looking over. Klink had had his suspicions towards the end, but with Hochstetter hovering around them constantly, he had not come forward with them.

Hogan paused, wondering exactly how much to tell him. It wasn't that Klink couldn't be trusted—especially since he was involved as an employee of the Schroeder Corporation, anyway. But, in any case, they were under orders to keep their missions as secret as possible.

"If I am, you can be sure that we're on the same side this time," he said, at last, with a good-natured shrug.

"'If,' Hogan?" Klink asked. "Do you mean to tell me that you came back to Germany _just_ to visit myself or Schultz?"

"Well, we knew Schultz was here, but we didn't expect to see you," Hogan said, truthfully.

"And I suppose that you sent the rest of your men to try to get some information from Schultz regarding this new endeavor?" Klink asked.

"I can't answer that," Hogan said.

"Which, in short, means yes," the German colonel sighed. "Hogan…" He paused, trying to find the words he was looking for. "Try to stay out of trouble." It would be a terrible irony if anything happened to Hogan or any of his men after they managed to survive the war, depsite pulling off all of their hi-jinks.

"We'll try," Hogan said, understanding what Klink meant.

"And Schultz, too—he's trying to teach his oldest child the basics of running a toy company. Don't get him too involved; his daughter needs all the tutelage she can get."

"Daughter?" Kinch asked, his eyebrows arched. "You mean she's working at the Schatzi Toy Company?"

"Oh, yes," said Klink. "Quite a lovely girl she is, too; she somehow managed to keep off the… family weight."

"Oh, boy," Hogan mused. "And I sent Newkirk and LeBeau there; hope they still aren't going to be smitten by Frauleins…"

"Carter will keep them in line," Kinch said.

Von Schroeder had patiently waited for the chatter to subside, but now he cleared his throat to bring the conversation back to the business at hand. The others took his cue and soon returned to work.

* * *

The strudel-bearing trio, in the meantime, had arrived to the gift shop of the Schatzi Toy Company while the counter was unattended. A few shoppers were looking around the store with their wide-eyed children.

"Wonder where Schultzie is," Newkirk said, glancing around.

"And I wonder if he did notice anything out of the ordinary," the Frenchman added. "You know how he doesn't like getting involved…"

"Guess we'll have to wait until the cashier gets back and ask them where Schultz is," said Carter. "But why don't we have a look around?"

"Andrew, it's a toy shop," Newkirk said, with a roll of his eyes. "What's there to see?"

"Well, when you consider that Schultz was the one who made all of these, I think it's interesting," the American countered. "I mean, look at this." He took a toy soldier down from the shelf. "How many toy soldiers do you see carrying a dish full of strudel?"

"_Quoi_?" LeBeau asked, taking a look. He took a look at the toy soldier and laughed out loud. "And this one has a deck of cards!" he added, picking up another one.

"Oh, blimey…" Newkirk snarked, now amused. "The old bloke really misses us, doesn't 'e? Fine, maybe there is something worth seeing…"

The Englishman trailed off, staring as a beautiful, young woman took her place behind the counter.

"Now there's no 'maybe' about it," he mused. "Excuse me…"

"Just a minute!" LeBeau said, thrusting an arm to block the Englishman's path. "What makes you think you can just walk over while I'm standing here?"

"Easy, little mate—I just take a few steps forward, and _voila_, as they say in your language."

"And why am I not allowed to take a few steps over myself?" the Frenchman inquired.

"Because I doubt that Marya would approve," Newkirk said, smirking with satisfaction. If he could get LeBeau to realize that Marya was not a woman worth chasing after, so much the better.

"Come on, you two," said Carter, shaking his head. "Don't forget why we're here; we're trying to find Schultz!"

LeBeau was giving Newkirk a very dark look as the girl in question walked over to them.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear…" she said. "You are looking for the proprietor?"

"That's right, Ma'am," Carter said, with a friendly smile.

"If you wait for a moment, Papa will be here," she said, returning the smile. "He is on his way."

"Oh, good," said Carter. He took a moment to realize what she had said, and he and the two corporals stared at her.

"_Papa_?" they repeated, in unison.

"_Ja_, my name is Johanna Schultz," she said, still smiling. "You must be some of Papa's friends from the war."

LeBeau murmured something in his own tongue as Newkirk gave a nod.

She blinked as the corporals stared.

"Are they alright?" she asked Carter.

"Oh, they're fine, Ma'am; it's just that while Schultz always said he had five children, he never mentioned that one was a young and beautiful woman—"

"Andrew!" Newkirk chided.

Before Carter could come up with a reply, Schultz himself ambled into the gift shop.

"Ah, Johanna, are you…?" the big man paused, noticing the trio. "_Ach du lieber_! You three!"

"'Allo, Schultzie," Newkirk said, with a grin. "We were in the neighborhood and thought we'd drop in."

"You are welcome here anytime!" the big man insisted. "What brings you to Heidelberg?"

"Well, I had some extra strudel on hand," LeBeau said, taking out the strudel he had made. "I am afraid it has gotten a little cold—"

Schultz didn't seem to care, taking a piece and offering another to his daughter.

"So you three came all this way just because you had extra strudel?" he asked, after some time. "Not that I am complaining, but that seems most unlike you." He blinked. "There isn't any new monkey business going around?"

"Actually, we were kind of hoping you'd tell us if there was," said Carter.

"Don't you three remember? I know nothing, I hear nothing, and I see nothing… except for that odd Fraulein who came by here a few days ago." Schultz paused, taking note that the trio looked at him expectantly. He took another piece of strudel and went on talking.

"She wasn't German, but that wasn't what was odd; we have foreigners here all the time," he said. "She seemed less interested in the work I was doing, and wanted to ask me about what I did during the war. She said she was a reporter." He gave a shrug, but blinked as he saw the frown on LeBeau's face. "Something wrong?"

"She wasn't a Spanish lady, by any chance, was she?" the Frenchman asked, as Carter gave a sideways glance at Newkirk, who looked absolutely blank.

"_Ja_, I believe she was," Schultz said. "Why?"

"A Spanish bird's been asking me for an interview for a couple of days," Newkirk explained.

"_Oui_, and she might have been the one who put the microphone in Newkirk's apartment!" LeBeau said, angrily. "I bet you there is one here!"

"Who'd bug a toy company?" Carter asked, as LeBeau began to inspect the shelves.

"The same person who would bug the apartment of an East End magician!" LeBeau responded.

"Come off it, Louis!" said Newkirk. "Even _if_ it was the bird who left the microphone because she saw us at the reunion, 'ow would she know enough about Schultzie, too—several days before the reunion?"

"I am not sure," LeBeau said. "But what happened at Stalag 13 is supposed to be a secret, and I have a feeling she already knows more than she should! Why else is she hovering around us? I didn't want to jump to conclusions before, but now I have my suspicions!"

"Louis, she's a reporter. It's 'er job to go around ferreting for juicy stories, and I reckon Stalag 13 'ad a bunch of rumors flying around about it. And if she was after information, she'd 'ave asked you for an interview, too."

"Good thing she didn't interview Hochstetter," Carter said, wryly. "He'd have told her all about his suspicions—"

"Quiet!" LeBeau hissed, still convinced there was a microphone hidden.

"Louis, you're crackers," Newkirk said, with a shake of his head. "It's like we all discussed yesterday—with us gone the evening of the reunion and the following morning, anyone could've put it there."

"Aha," Schultz said. "So you _are_ involved in some new monkey business…!"

"You saw, heard, and knew nothing," Carter reminded him.

"Absolutely. But be careful."

"_Oui_, but I am hoping that nothing is exactly what you told that girl when she was asking for an interview," LeBeau said, still searching.

"That is _exactly_ what I said," Schultz insisted. "All I told her was that I was a guard at a Luft Stalag; I didn't even tell her which one."

"_Bon_," LeBeau murmured. He sighed, taking a few steps back from the shelves.

"Find anything to report to Intelligence?" Newkirk asked, sardonically.

"_Non_, but I am still not convinced that your new lady friend is just an innocent bystander in all of this."

"Blimey, of all the—"

"Oh, no more fighting; I had thought you were past all of this!" Schultz said, with a shake of his head. "Come—I will show you around, _ja_? It will help keep your minds off of whatever it is your minds are on."

Refusing to take no for an answer, the big man ushered the trio inside to tour the company. His idea worked; the three men soon forgot about their argument, finally able to relax for a while before they would have to progress with their mission.

It would be a veritable calm before the storm.


	5. A Thousand Points of Spite

Hogan and Kinch eventually finished their meeting with von Schroeder and Klink and came to the toy company, where Schultz warmly greeted them as he had the trio. While allowing them to stay for a little while longer, Hogan expressed his regret that they would need to get back to London as soon as possible—and they would need to talk to Hochstetter before that.

Schultz was disappointed to see them go, but cheered up at the promise of more visits (and strudel from LeBeau).

"Nice to see old Schultzie's got a good job and everything for 'imself…" Newkirk commented, as they headed towards the prison. "And you say Klink actually got that bookkeeping job 'e was nattering on about?"

"Odd as it is, he did," Hogan commented.

"I'd say that with him in that job and Schultz getting his toy company up and running," everyone's where they should be," Carter said. He blinked as they approached the prison and added, "Oh, yeah—add Hochstetter being locked up to that list."

"Speaking of Hochstetter, how much does he know about us?" Kinch asked, as Hogan spoke briefly with the men in charge of the prison to grant them access to the prisoner. "He always had his suspicions…"

"Thankfully, that's all he has," Hogan replied, as he led them down a few corridors. "Everyone has been very careful about keeping Hochstetter in the dark as to what really happened at Stalag 13."

The colonel then indicted for them to be quiet as they approached the cells with the convicted war criminals. Several sets of angry eyes leered at them from behind the bars of cells, but it was one pair in particular that issued the greatest amount of contempt.

"Colonel Hogan…" Hochstetter spat. "So, you have arrived with your loyal team of saboteurs."

"Oh, come on, Hochstetter; you aren't still convinced that we were running any sort of operation like that in Stalag 13, are you?" Hogan asked.

"We were just having a little reunion," Carter said. "See, there was a—"

Newkirk shut him up again with his usual standby of clapping his hand over the American's mouth.

"I know why you are here, Hogan," Hochstetter said, ignoring Carter. "You are clearly involved in your country's struggle against the Communists. That's why you have gathered your entourage together again—you will be carrying out the same acts of espionage on them that you did to us."

"Skip it, Hochstetter, you're way off base anyway," Hogan retorted. "And it's our turn to do the interrogating. We've heard that we're not your only visitors; you've been speaking with Communist agents that have come through here."

The cruel man smirked.

"So?" he asked. "What business is it of yours as to who my visitors are?"

"You don't even agree with the Communist agenda," Hogan said, folding his arms.

"There is one thing we do agree on," Hochstetter said. "We all agree that Papa Bear is our enemy."

"And you still think _I'm_ Papa Bear?" the colonel asked, with an air of amusement.

"I don't think, Hogan; I _know_ you are Papa Bear, and these men here are your loyal followers," Hochstetter snarled. "You may have been able to fool Klink and even General Burkhalter, but I knew it was you. I regret that I was never able to prove it and have your head."

"So that's what it is—a vendetta based on mere speculation?" Hogan said, shaking his head. "Hochstetter, I'm surprised at you; I always took you for a man of some thought…"

"Speculation? Bah!" Hochstetter snarled. "Do you think it escaped me that it was always the same men going missing—the same men getting caught on alleged escape attempts?" He glared at the others. "But you had plans of your own, didn't you? Every time I decided to arrest you all without bothering to get the evidence, I found myself caught in red tape that you had somehow set up! You were able to manipulate Klink and even Burkhalter himself into working against me!"

He glared at Newkirk next, which startled the Englishman.

"Gretel was right about you; I was wise to trust her again now," he said. "I should never have believed that General von Siedelberg—whoever he was."

"You never did find out who he was, did you?" Hogan asked, with a smirk.

"No, but he must be someone close enough to you to be willing to risk his neck to save you. It would take a man of superior intellect to pass as a general who doesn't even exist. Someday, I will find that man."

It was a good thing that Newkirk still had his hand over Carter's mouth, because the sergeant failed in biting back a triumphant smirk.

"Well, Hochstetter, I'm sorry to say that you're mistakenly convinced that we did anything worth mentioning during the war," Hogan said.

"Do not think you will have the last laugh, Hogan—you or your men," Hochstetter vowed.

The men found Hochstetter's bitter rants laughable, but it was Hogan who took the threats at face value, concerned. What the others took as empty threats from a defeated foe, the colonel saw as a promise to escape. With Communists working with Hochstetter in exchange for as much information the major could offer, it wasn't too far-fetched to believe that he had a deal in the works that would lead to his escape.

The men sensed Hogan's mood, and the smiles were quickly wiped from their faces.

"That will be all," Hogan said, to a nearby guard, also instructing him to increase the guard on Hochstetter's cell. Without saying another word to Hochstetter, he led his men out.

"Sir, you don't really think…?" Newkirk began, already knowing the answer.

"Hochstetter told the Communists everything he suspected about us?" Hogan finished. "I'm afraid so. Why else would your apartment have been bugged?"

"And why else would that reporter show up at your flat _and_ Schultz's toy factory?" LeBeau asked.

"Oh, leave off on 'er, already…" Newkirk said. "You 'eard what 'ochstetter said back there—that 'e was wise to trust Gretel again now? That probably means that she is in London right now—and likely the one who bugged the place."

"Do you honestly think that Gretel can just waltz right into England and start spying on us just like that?" LeBeau asked.

"It's far-fetched, but not impossible," Hogan said, after pondering over the idea. "After all, we know who General von Siedelberg really is. Who's to say that Gretel isn't in disguise, herself? We got people out of Germany; she could have had people get her into England."

"Then all she'd have to do is find a position where she could keep tabs on Newkirk," Kinch concluded.

"Well, what about that magician, the Great Pandora?" Carter asked, after thinking it over. "Remember how I was saying that it was weird that he would choose a girl's name? Maybe he really _is_ a girl! After all, Frau Newkirkberger was really a man!"

"I could've done without that blooming reminder…"

"Sorry," Carter said. "But you were the one who said that Pandora apparently showed up in the middle of the war. That was right after I discredited Gretel."

"She was in Paris for some time afterwards, working with Colonel Backsheider; I saw 'er when I was looking for Louis that one time," Newkirk said. "But maybe she did later go to London as a spy. But the idea of Gretel in disguise as Pandora? I don't know, Andrew; it's true I've never actually spoken to Pandora or bothered to stick around for one of 'is shows, but I think the others would've noticed if 'e was really a she."

"No one ever found _you_ out," Carter reminded him. "And for a spy to know where you live, they'd have to be pretty close to you."

"Oh, blimey. You and Louis are both letting your imaginations run away with you."

"I'm not so sure they are," said Hogan. "Hochstetter practically admitted that Gretel's involved. And while it might be a coincidence that your reporter friend showed up at the reunion and your apartment, you have to admit that it is suspicious."

The Englishman sighed. He understood why everyone was suspicious of the situation, of course, but he didn't want to admit to himself the possibility that Gretel had deceived him for a second time. As for Miss Sandiego… well… Maybe he could stand to be a little more cautious, but there was no need for LeBeau to know that and subsequently think he had won their little argument.

"Right," he said aloud. "We can check up on Pandora when we get back to London. And if we find out that Gretel is involved…" He trailed off. If she was, it would be a chance for revenge—a chance he never thought he'd get.

"Maybe we can unnerve her with General von Siedelberg again," LeBeau mused.

Carter chuckled to himself, pleased that he had created such a stir that had never been fully resolved.

"Actually, you'd be surprised at how reverently von Siedelberg is referred to among the brass," Hogan said. "_They_ still don't know who he is."

"You didn't tell them?" Kinch asked.

"No, just in case we needed him again," the colonel replied. "It's always good to have a general in stock."

"Even if he _is_ just a sergeant," Carter grinned.

The discussion continued on, the men mainly talking about how much Hochstetter could have said, and thinking about possible consequences of it. It was a relief that Hochstetter did not know enough about their methods to label them as predictable. But they also agreed that they would have to be cautious in the event that the Communists would try to find out about their methods in other ways.

The team's return to London was orchestrated to occur during the cover of night, leaving Newkirk to remind Carter and LeBeau to mind the carpet when they returned to his apartment at one in the morning, much to their annoyance.

"I would think you would see to fixing it after the incident with the bug," LeBeau muttered.

He was exhausted, practically collapsing onto the sofabed, which prompted Newkirk to make a comment about a fainting couch. The Frenchman was not amused; he turned over on his side and shut his eyes.

"Hey, he has a point, you know," Carter said. "We don't even know if whoever left the bug here before put in another one while we were away."

LeBeau's eyes snapped open, turning back; he and Newkirk stared at the American, silently cursing him for the new wave of paranoia.

"I think it's a safe bet that we can write off sleep tonight," Newkirk muttered, beginning to look around the nooks and crannies of the room for wires or microphones.

LeBeau and Carter followed suit, but a sweep of the entire apartment yielded nothing. Needless to say, the corporals were still somewhat irked at the sergeant when they did awake from their all-too-brief slumber.

LeBeau started on breakfast as Newkirk looked at the calendar.

"Today's Tuesday," he announced. "Means that Pandora does a show tonight; the Guv'nor might want to 'ave a good look at 'im and see if there is anything to be suspicious about."

"I also think we should try taking a look around his—or her—dressing room," Carter said. "We can find all sorts of stuff there."

"Pandora also 'as a large storage room backstage we could look 'round," Newkirk informed him. "That's where all of the large equipment is kept—the box for sawing the bird in 'alf, the vanishing box, the Table of Death, though that's actually Sergeant Flood's…"

"Table of _what_?" Carter asked, somewhat disturbed that the same man who once stuffed him in a footlocker and fled owned something with that name.

Even LeBeau peered out from the kitchen, his eyebrows arched.

"It's an escape trick; I've seen Flood do it a thousand times," Newkirk explained. "You shackle the escapee to that table, and there's a suspended bed of spikes 'eld up by a rope right over it. You set a candle up under the rope so that the escapee only 'as a limited amount of time to escape the shackles before the spikes come falling down."

"Oh, that sounds _lovely_," LeBeau said, sardonically, heading back to the kitchen.

"I don't know what you two are so concerned about; you're not the one doing the trick," Newkirk said, with a roll of his eyes. "And old Flood knows exactly what 'e's doing."

"Getting back to Flood," Carter said. "Since he keeps that Table of Doom— or whatever it's called—in that storage place where Pandora keeps his—or her—things, maybe he's had a chance to see if anything seems wrong with Pandora. Do you know if Flood will be there tonight, too?"

"Maybe," Newkirk said. "The escapology acts are usually on the matinee performances on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but Flood might stick around for the evening shows if there's nothing better to do. We'll 'ave a better chance of catching 'im if we try to meet 'im right after the show."

"Does he do that Table of Death trick for the matinee audiences, as well?" LeBeau inquired.

"I believe so. Why? You want to shut your eyes in case there's any blood?" Newkirk cracked.

"_Non, imbécile_; it gives us an excuse to go into the store room!" the Frenchman shot back, throwing a dish towel in the Englishman's direction. "It also gives Kinch and _le colonel_ an excuse, as well."

Newkirk dodged the towel with a tilt of his head.

"Point taken," he admitted. "I'll call the Guv'nor and tell 'im and Kinch to meet us there after lunch. We can 'elp set up Flood's next show, which will be our cover."

"Okay, but I'm not going anywhere near that Table of… Whatever," Carter insisted, suppressing a shudder.

Newkirk rolled his eyes, deciding to change the subject.

"The Guv'nor really seems convinced that 'ochstetter is going to escape."

"I hate to say it, but if we could escape from German guards that easily, Hochstetter might, too," Carter said.

"I, for one, cannot believe that he is willing to go along with the Communist agenda just to get his revenge on us," LeBeau said. "He must really be insane!"

"Well, between the Guv'nor's plans, Kinch impersonating his superior, Andrew 'ere being General von Siedelberg, Baker dousing 'im with gallons of water, you getting 'im arrested for dancing with you, and me own little Nimrod ploy, you've got to admit that we all but pushed him to it…" Newkirk said. "Mind you, I ain't saying I'm sorry we did it; ruddy fool got what was coming to 'im."

LeBeau and Carter both agreed to his sentiments.

"And breakfast is ready," LeBeau announced, filling the plates with croissants and scrambled eggs.

"I can assume that it ain't a full English breakfast…" Newkirk teased, carrying on their game of which cuisine was the better one. The truth was, of course, that he owed a great deal of his health and well-being during the five years of his time in Stalag 13 to LeBeau's cooking, despite his numerous claims that he did not enjoy French cuisine. English pride, naturally, forbade him from ever admitting this to his friend.

They were well into their breakfast, Newkirk feeling too hungry to criticize the "un-Englishness" of the meal, when a frantic knocking on the apartment door caught their attention.

"Peter!" Roger's voice yelled from the other side. "Oi, Peter, open up!"

"Now what's gotten into him?" the corporal muttered, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "If this is another plea for borrowing money…"

It was no plea, as Newkirk soon found out. He opened the door to see a very wide-eyed Roger clutching a copy of the morning newspaper.

"What's gotten into you?" the corporal asked, blinking at the look on his face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Peter, what were you doing last night?" Roger asked, after he took a few minutes to try to string his words together.

Newkirk blinked. Telling Roger the truth about Heidelberg would be out of the question.

"I was with Louis and Andrew last night," he said, at last. "What's this all about?"

"You sure they were with you the entire night?" Roger asked. "Because it's not like you—it really ain't. We didn't want to believe it."

"Believe what?" Newkirk asked, as LeBeau and Carter got up from the table as they exchanged glances, walking over to where the two Englishmen were.

"There was another attack last night by the new Springheel Jack," said Roger. "A man was robbed and beaten by his attacker, who jumped over another wall to make his escape, just like that lady said a few nights ago."

"Oh, is that all?" Newkirk asked, more annoyed than concerned. "The ruddy fool got drunk again and did some more midnight pinching. So what?"

"Because… well…" Roger said, looking uncomfortable. "James and Philip don't believe it for a moment—neither do I, of course. It never was your style at all to 'urt anyone you were stealing from."

"What are you trying to say?" Newkirk asked, his eyes narrowing. He liked this less and less.

"The police compiled this sketch of the Springheel Jack II from the man's report," Roger said, handing the paper over to him. "He saw his face briefly under a streetlight."

The trio stared, open-mouthed, at the sketch. The sketch of the attacker's face was that of Newkirk's.

* * *

_Author's Note: Newkirk's referencing several episodes in that one paragraph; if anyone isn't sure of which ones they are, just ask. Also, re: the unsigned reviewer-I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else; I never had surgery-it's student teaching that's eating my writing time... but thanks for the concern, anyway._


	6. To the Theatre

"Gosh, Peter, that's you!" Carter exclaimed. He flinched as Newkirk gave him a withering look. "Well, it just looks like you…"

"That was a shocker to us, that was!" Roger said. "Peter, we'll stand by you no matter what, you know that. But… are you really the new Springheel Jack?"

"_Are you mad_!" the corporal roared back. He had to bite his tongue and hold back what he hadn't shared to anyone—how he had privately vowed to himself during his time in Stalag 13 that he would never steal again unless it had something to do with a mission.

"Hey, _I_ didn't even ask that," Carter said, finding it difficult to believe that Roger just asked that. "And you're supposed to be his best friend?"

"Andrew…" Newkirk said, turning to him again. He stopped, deciding not to say anything. "Forget it." He turned back to Roger. "No, it was not me—I already told you, I was with Louis and Andrew last night."

"I knew it couldn't be you," Roger said, with relief. "Like I said, it was never like you to 'urt the ones you stole from. I'll be sure to tell the boys—not that they really believed it was you, either, of course."

"Thank you, Roger," Newkirk said, sardonically, as he shooed him away. He stared at the sketch in the paper, still trying to make sense of it, as were the others.

"Why would the new Springheel Jack look like you?" LeBeau asked, scowling. "It cannot be a coincidence. Someone is trying to get you into trouble, and I think I know who it is."

"Gretel, no doubt," Newkirk said, before LeBeau could start accusing Miss Sandiego. "She knows exactly what I look like; this pretty much proves that she's 'ere."

The Frenchman frowned, but Carter spoke up before he could retort.

"Hey, we need to tell the colonel about this, though I bet he already knows—he's probably reading the story right now," the American said. "If you lend me some change, I can go to the nearest pay phone and ask him what he wants us to do."

Newkirk grunted, going through the pocket of his jacket, which was draped over a chair. Finding some money for Carter to use, he handed it over to him.

"Don't forget to tell 'im about Flood's matinee show," he said.

"Gotcha," Carter said, heading out the door. "See you guys in a bit."

"And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious loitering around the area!" LeBeau called after him. "They're going to be watching you, too!"

He turned to Newkirk as Carter headed out the door, staring at the Englishman, without saying anything for a moment.

"Right, I know what you're going to say," Newkirk said. "You don't think it's Gretel; you think it's that reporter, don't you?"

"I never said that Gretel was not involved; she would want revenge on us for discrediting her, without a doubt," LeBeau said. "I am trying to say that you should not trust that reporter! It would not surprise me in the slightest if they were somehow working together." He shook his head. "_Mon pote_, you are a very dear friend of mine, and you have intelligence that the rest of us do not have—I believe André once referred to it as 'street smarts,' whatever that means. But you trust women far too readily."

"I 'ave to take this from the bloke who goes absolutely crackers whenever a certain Russian bird is in the vicinity?"

"Trying to turn the conversation towards me is not going to change anything. And besides that, I keep telling you she is on our side—General Barton said so!"

"General Barton also once said that the Guv'nor was a traitor," Newkirk reminded him.

LeBeau froze. He didn't have a witty reply to that remark, because it was true, and he had been as upset with Barton as Newkirk had been.

"I will go clear the breakfast table," he said, turning on his heel and walking off.

"You do that," Newkirk said, glancing at the sketch of his face in the paper. "I've lost me appetite, seeing this…"

LeBeau responded with a casual "hmm" of agreement.

They seemed to silently agree to drop the argument right there; the last thing they needed was to let an argument distract them from the mission at hand—and this new hiccup of someone trying to frame Newkirk.

The Englishman decided that LeBeau shouldn't be forced to clear the table alone when he was supposed to be a guest in his apartment; he moved to help him. A few minutes went by before Carter came back.

"The colonel's on his way with Kinch," he said. "He saw it in the paper, just as I thought. He's really steamed."

"Charming," Newkirk sighed, leaning against the wall.

"Oh, he doesn't blame you," Carter assured him. "He knows it's not your fault. He's just trying to figure out how to get you an alibi; we can't exactly let it be known that we were in Heidelberg. It would confirm the enemy agents' suspicions that we're on the case and will be after them."

"Right, but until then, I'll 'ave to keep a low profile," Newkirk said, decidedly upset about this.

"It is crazy that anyone would think you're the new Springheel Jack," Carter added. "I mean, if you could jump a wall in one bound, wouldn't you have jumped over the wire in Stalag 13?"

"That only means that they will think he was a collaborator in addition to a thief," LeBeau said, darkly. "The world is a very cold place, André."

"Can I help it if I'm still an eternal optimist?" Carter said, with an innocent shrug.

Newkirk was lost in his own thoughts as Carter and LeBeau began to banter. Something that Carter had said earlier was still in his mind.

_You're supposed to be his best friend?_

Roger _had_ always been his best friend until the war. But, somewhere along the line, LeBeau and Carter had made a takeover bid for that position. Once the war ended and he was back in familiar settings, it seemed that Roger was trying to take that title back, but LeBeau and Carter were still holding onto it.

_You're going to have to make a choice, Peter_, he told himself. _You've got two different lives, and you're going to have to choose one. The Guv'nor will understand if you decide to back out—especially with this new development of you being framed and all. But can you really leave them like that?_

Newkirk shut his eyes, and he paused for a moment to listen to Carter and LeBeau squabble, but then their voices faded into the background of his mind.

_The Dartboard Four. The Unsung Heroes. You're a leader in one, but a follower in the other. One is nothing but fun, but the other can be fatal. You've known the blokes in one since you were a lad, but you've only known the other for a few years_.

It seemed like it would be such a simple choice. So, then, why was it so difficult to decide?

"Hey, why don't we change the subject? We're upsetting Peter," he heard Carter say, after some time had passed.

"No, you go ahead and talk about whatever you want," Newkirk said, pulling himself back to reality. "I wasn't really…"

He trailed off as he heard a knock on the door.

"It's open," he called, knowing it was Hogan.

Hogan and Kinch carefully strode over the carpet as they entered; Hogan was noticeably upset, and Newkirk couldn't help but feel that he was, somehow or other, at fault.

"Sir," he said, quietly. "Sir, if I 'ad done anything wrong—"

"It's not your fault," Hogan said, immediately. "It was just bad luck that they picked you; they could easily have picked anyone else. If we were in Paris, they might've picked LeBeau. What we need to do is figure out how to investigate without being investigated in return."

"Are we still checking out that theatre today?" Kinch asked. "It's not a good idea for Newkirk to be out when his sketch is all over the papers."

"We're still going," the colonel replied. "But we'll need some sort of disguise for Newkirk; I don't want anyone recognizing him from the paper by accident."

Newkirk sighed, but agreed to the disguise—which consisted of a fedora, sunglasses, a fake moustache, and a long coat.

He bit his lip as they headed towards the theatre. He still had to talk to the colonel about his second thoughts regarding joining the team again…

"Gee, I think we're slipping in the disguise department," Carter suddenly commented, prompting Newkirk to remove the shades long enough to give him a deadpan look. "I mean, we've put him in better disguises than this!"

"Well, we revived the organization three days ago," Hogan said, humoring him. "You can't expect us to have our entire wardrobe of disguises up and running so soon."

"No, I guess not…"

Newkirk shifted his gaze to LeBeau, who had his arms folded and his brow furrowed in deep thought. It was very difficult to tell what the Frenchman was thinking at times—especially when he usually wasn't even thinking in English.

* * *

Sergeant Flood was more than willing to let the Heroes investigate under the guise of helping with his show; he didn't believe that Newkirk was guilty, either.

A sweep of Pandora's dressing room revealed nothing; there was only stage makeup, not women's cosmetics. And the only things in the closet were the costumes he used, plus an old bottle of champagne that Newkirk briefly considered "borrowing" to make up for all of the time they had wasted searching the place.

"I didn't really expect anything to be in here," Hogan sighed. "If anything was here, it would tie Pandora to whatever's going on. But if it's in the storage area, he can deny that it's his."

"Or hers," Carter added, still not giving up his theory that Pandora might really be Gretel.

"You lot can look in the storage area if you like," Flood said. "And while you're there, can you move the Table of Death to the stage while I go get ready? It's a blooming beast to move on your own."

"With a name like that, I can imagine," Hogan deadpanned.

Newkirk got the door open for them, revealing the interior of the dimly-lit magicians' storeroom. Carter resisted the temptation of saying that it looked like something out of a mystery novel; magic equipment—the most unused pieces resting in the back with a layer of dust—lay in seemingly random positions all around. A disappearing cabinet was holding up silk hats, along with numerous cards, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and other magicians' essentials. There were levitating chairs and tables, and boxes of every shape and size for various death-defying magic tricks.

Carter's enthusiasm for the search was starting to dwindle; the sight of all of those boxes—and the swords and blades that accompanied them—were beginning to get a little bit discomfiting.

_It really is like a mystery novel—a murder mystery_, he thought.

"What's eating you?" Kinch asked, startling Carter.

"Oh, nothing," he replied. "Just that a guy could easily get himself killed being around this stuff, that's all. I mean, look at this!" He indicated an oblong box that was used to saw people in half. "Is there anyone among us who wants to get into this thing and be sawn in two?"

"Not me; I am short enough as it is," LeBeau said, dryly, as he folded his arms. He didn't like the eeriness of the equipment, either, but he wasn't going to broadcast his nervousness.

"It's all an illusion, Andrew," Newkirk said, with a shake of his head.

"Oh, yeah? Then what's this?" Carter asked, lifting up one of the rectangular blades, which was splattered with something red.

_Thud_.

"Oops. Sorry, Louis…" the sergeant said, to the now-unconscious Frenchman.

"Oh, for 'eaven's sake…" Newkirk muttered, as he knelt down to wave his fedora in front of LeBeau's face. "That's fake blood, that is—they need to 'ave some touch of realism, don't they?"

"A little too real for some," Hogan commented, helping LeBeau up as he began to come around.

The Frenchman groaned, shaking the cobwebs from his head as Carter hastily put the fake blood-covered blade out of sight. With that incident effectively over, the team resumed searching.

"Here's something," Kinch said, after some time. He pulled out an RAF dress uniform from one of the unused boxes in the back. "It can't be Flood's; it's for a corporal."

"Blimey, that looks about me size, doesn't it…?" Newkirk murmured, taking a closer look.

"And there's no dust on it," Hogan added. "Gentlemen, I think it's safe to confirm that our impersonator does have a job here."

"Is there anything else back there?" LeBeau asked, still a little unsteady on his feet.

"Not in this box," Kinch said. "But there could be something in the others—"

Carter suddenly let out a yell; he had been opening the different compartments of the Mis-made Person trick, and had come face to face with a pair of dummy legs in one of them, which, in the dim light, had looked all too real.

"Uh, it's nothing; I'm fine…" he said, blushing from his embarrassment as the others turned to stare at him.

"Another touch of realism," Newkirk reminded him, with a roll of his eyes.

"Yeah, I figured as much."

Unfortunately, the remainder of the old, empty boxes in the back didn't seem to hold anything; apparently, the RAF dress uniform had just been dumped there after the perpetrator realized that it would be of no further use. Whoever the perpetrator was, he—or she, as Carter would add—was hiding the costume they were using.

"They're being careful; they've probably found other places in or nearby the theatre to conceal their equipment," Hogan concluded, as they all helped to more the Table of Death to the stage as Flood had requested. With that task done, they could start asking around about Pandora. "It's true that more clues would've been helpful, but at least we know where to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity."

"Yeah, and we still need to get a good look at this Pandora," Carter added. "I guess we're coming back for his show tonight, huh?"

"Yes, but we're keeping a low profile," Hogan replied. "So no volunteering for anything."

"With all due respect, _mon colonel_, I highly doubt that any of us were planning to do so," LeBeau said.

"Yeah," Hogan agreed. He turned to the East Ender. "You're rather quiet, Newkirk."

"I've got a lot on me mind, Guv," he said, quietly.

LeBeau's head turned sharply; he had known Newkirk long enough to be able to read him better than the others. This was more than just the Springheel Jack II impersonating him, and LeBeau had a sneaking suspicion that it had to do with Newkirk having second thoughts about the team.

Unbidden came the memories of the time he had wanted to leave Stalag 13 after hearing General de Gaulle's rallying message to Frenchman. Newkirk had been the first to try to convince him to stay.

LeBeau was not about to let Newkirk quit without a similar fight. He folded his arms again, his eyes narrowed; Newkirk picked up on the visual cues and deliberately avoided catching his eye.

It wasn't about to be the last fight he would get into with Newkirk, either.


	7. Second Thoughts

The afternoon had a cloud of uncertainly hovering over it. Questions about Pandora did not yield any significant results; everyone only knew that he had shown up during the war with his lovely assistant. There was no answer to why he had chosen a female name as a stage name, nor was there any information on his habits. Pandora kept to himself, refusing to attend the socials or parties that the other magicians attended.

With these limited answers, the team convened back at Newkirk's apartment for the British tradition of afternoon tea, followed by a discussion of the situation.

"It's the textbook case of someone having something to hide," Carter said, determined that his theory had a chance of being true.

"More like a textbook case of someone who's just antisocial," Kinch said. "If someone had something to hide, why would he act so suspiciously? Let's assume that your theory of Pandora being Gretel is right. Gretel isn't some naïve girl; she's a trained spy. She knows how to fool her enemies."

"Too right," Newkirk muttered, thinking about how easily he had been duped by the spy. His voice had an edge of bitterness to it. If she was behind the new Springheel Jack attacks now, it was likely because she had been driven out of Germany because of the incident involving the two of them.

All eyes were on Newkirk now, who stared into his teacup to avoid their gaze, but LeBeau's especially. The older corporal had been keeping an eye on his English friend with his peripheral vision, and Newkirk knew that LeBeau somehow knew about the debate going on in the Englishman's head.

"Well," Kinch said, trying to move on from the awkward pause that had filled the conversation. "The point I'm trying to make is that if Pandora was Gretel, she wouldn't draw attention to herself by walling herself off, even if she was impersonating a man. I'm not saying that this automatically puts Pandora in the clear, of course; he could've been set up by Gretel so that she could pull the strings out of sight."

Hogan mused over this and gave a nod.

"I agree; it still warrants more of an investigation," he said. "We're still going back to see his show tonight. Newkirk, how much are tickets?"

"I can get you in for free, Guv—employee's privilege."

"Good. I still don't want us going together; Kinch and I will go separately while you three meet us there in Newkirk's dressing room."

"You want Newkirk to be in disguise again?" Carter asked.

"I doubt that anyone will recognize him in the dark of evening, but it'd be a good idea for him to be in disguise—just in case," Hogan agreed. "The show starts at 1900 hours; I want us to be in Newkirk's dressing room at 1830 hours."

The men nodded, barely even taking note that the colonel was still using military time out of habit.

"Kinch, you and I need to get word to General Barton about what's going on here," Hogan said. "We'll have to use code; I don't want anyone whoever's behind this to find out that it _is_ giving us a headache."

"Colonel?" Newkirk asked. "Do you think I could 'ave a word before you go?"

Hogan's eyebrows arched, but he gave a nod.

Kinch and Carter both exchanged glances and prudently retreated to the exterior of the apartment for a quick walk as LeBeau retreated to the kitchen. Hogan indicated the direction of the kitchen, but Newkirk shook his head.

"If I know Louis, 'e already knows what I'm about to tell you," the Englishman said. "Sir, I know you don't blame me for what's been going on with this new Springheel Jack, but I've been thinking. Me mate Roger probably told Mavis about this, and… Well, I'll get straight to it, Sir; she'll 'ave questions about this, and it's made me realize that while I do 'ave an obligation to you and the others, I also 'ave an obligation to Mavis. To be completely frank, I've got second thoughts about rejoining the operation."

The Englishman flinched as he heard the distinct sound of the teakettle being slammed onto the kitchen counter.

"You may as well get over 'ere, Louis," he said, sighing. "It's like I told the colonel; this ain't coming as a surprise to you."

"_Oui_, but I am sure it was no surprise to you when I demanded to return to France after I was told of de Gaulle's message!" the older corporal shot back, coming into view. "What did you do? You were the first one to try to convince me to stay on!"

"Calm down, LeBeau," Hogan said, stopping the fight before it began. He knew that this was not going to be one of their spirited banters, but a full-fledged argument.

"Calm down?" LeBeau repeated. "_Pardon_, _Colonel_, but you, too, tried to stop me from leaving!"

"And then I relented and said that you could go," Hogan reminded him. "Just like I did with Carter when he wanted to go back to see his girl. And the both of you relented and stayed on by your own volition."

The colonel looked from LeBeau to Newkirk.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat anything and say that it's all going to be fun and games in the revived operation, even if the war is over and Hochstetter is locked up," he said. "It's just as dangerous now as it was then. And even though I don't like the idea, I can't keep anybody in the operation if he wants out, providing he has a valid reason for leaving. That goes for you, LeBeau, and for Newkirk and any of the others."

"And I just said that I was 'aving second thoughts about rejoining," Newkirk pointed out. "I didn't give me letter of resignation yet! I just wanted the colonel to know that I might not want to stay on; I'm only thinking it over."

"Then you keep thinking about it, Newkirk," Hogan said. "My stand on this is the same as it's always been—I don't like the idea of anyone leaving, especially when I chose the members of my core team for specific reasons. But, in the end, I can't stop you; it's a volunteer operation."

He glanced between the two corporals. Since the beginning of the operation in Stalag 13, Newkirk and LeBeau had been in it together. If one corporal was to leave the operation, it would mean a significant loss of morale for the other; Hogan had seen it happen with Newkirk after it looked as though LeBeau was going through with his plans to return to France. Had LeBeau not changed his mind, there would've been every chance in the world that Newkirk might have followed suit and left next.

Hogan also knew that LeBeau would not let Newkirk leave so easily now. An argument would be inevitable between them once he left the apartment; he would have to tell Carter to moderate it and hope that things settled themselves. As much as Hogan hated to admit it, it was out of his hands now.

"Take all the time you want to make your decision, Newkirk, but don't let it interfere with your performance on the current mission," he said. "We'll see you at your dressing room tonight."

"Right, Guv'nor."

The colonel took his leave, hoping that the unavoidable argument would lead to something positive.

LeBeau waited for Hogan to be out of earshot.

"So…" he said, folding his arms. "You are having second thoughts."

"Louis, come on," Newkirk said, not really in the mood for justifying his actions. "You understand where I'm coming from, don't you? I've got to look after me sister, and you've got your restaurant to look after, don't you?"

"My restaurant will be able to go on without me for as long as the missions require," LeBeau said. "And your sister is a big girl; she can look after herself while you are working, _non_?"

"It's not that she can't look after 'erself; I'm sure she could do just fine on her own if she had to, but…"

Newkirk sighed, looking to his friend in the hopes that he, of all people, would understand.

"Louis, I'm the only one she's got left," he said. "You've got a brother and two sisters, all older than you, and you've got your parents. They can support each other, even if you 'ave to take leaves to go on missions. And I'm sure you can count on them to 'elp you keep your restaurant afloat if you're going to be gone a long time."

"And you don't think that Mavis can do without you?" LeBeau asked. "Are you not underestimating her?"

"Louis, she's been waiting for me to come back 'ome ever since I was first thrown into Stalag 13," Newkirk explained. "And I won't lie; in the back of me mind, I always wanted to come back to the life I left behind. It's been nearly two years since the war, and I've been content and 'appy coming back to this life."

"You certainly visited me in Paris a lot for someone who enjoyed being back in London…"

"That's because you're me little mate, ain't you?"

"Oh, yes? Well, your 'little mate' is here in London on a mission, and he will go wherever the missions go," LeBeau pointed out. "What will you do then? Will you go to the Red Lion with that Roger, who is _such_ a close friend to you that he had to ask you if you were this Springheel Jack?"

"Roger only asked that because 'e knew I was a thief before the war," Newkirk explained. "We all were—the whole gang. We 'ad to steal to stay alive; if it was 'is sketch in the paper, the lads would've been asking 'im the same thing, and I likely would've asked it, as well."

"Oh, how nice!" LeBeau said, sardonically. "If I had been in Paris and saw your sketch in the paper, I would have come up here just to curse at that alleged eyewitness and defend you—_mon pote_!"

"I believe you would," Newkirk said, not denying it.

"Then why do you not see that your place is with us? Yes, I missed my family while I was in Stalag 13; I thought about going back every time I received a letter from my poor mother about how my father and sisters were working while my brother lay in the hospital! And I know I will miss them now! Did I let that stop me from joining the operation again? No! So why must you think you are different from me?"

Before Newkirk could respond, there was a knock on the apartment door, which soon opened.

"Um, hello?" Carter asked, peeking inside. "Hey, did you two know that you're loud enough to be heard down the hall? You don't want the neighbors complaining to the landlady. And more than that, you don't want to spout any classified information to someone who isn't supposed to hear it."

LeBeau muttered something in his own tongue and folded his arms. He was mostly done with his piece, but had refrained from saying that it wasn't just a sense of duty that had made him agree to join the team again. In all honesty, he had missed working with the others as a team—especially Newkirk and Carter. Seeing them on visits was one thing, but working together again, especially in a situation where they were no longer prisoners of war, was something that had had been very appealing.

But with Newkirk possibly backing out, it was beginning to lose its appeal for LeBeau, as well.

Carter looked from one corporal to the other with unease, and suddenly realized that he was about to be caught in the middle of this argument.

"So, I heard that you're having second thoughts, Peter?" he ventured.

"Nothing that you and Louis 'aven't experienced yourselves," Newkirk reminded him.

"But we eventually stayed," LeBeau reminded him again. "Is that not so, André?"

"Well, sure," Carter said. "But you can't really blame him, can you? Not that I want him to leave, but I'm sure he wouldn't even think about leaving unless he had a very good reason."

Newkirk looked to Carter in gratitude. He had hoped that at least one of the two would understand, and it looked as though Carter was the one.

"Thank you, Andrew," Newkirk said. "And it's like I told the Guv'nor; I 'aven't made up me mind one way or the other. I'll still be participating in this mission, and by the end of it, I'll let you know."

LeBeau grunted. That gave him some time to try to influence his younger friend, at least.

Newkirk gave a sigh and sat back down at his little kitchen table, thinking about what he had to do—and the decision he had to make. If it was going to be like this, always dealing with Gretel or someone else trying to slander his name, he wasn't sure he could enjoy it—not while Mavis would be all too aware of what was going on. He still hadn't spoken to her at all since the sketch had been printed in the paper.

And then there was LeBeau's role in this turning point. Newkirk understood where the Frenchman was coming from; he had felt the same way, after all, when LeBeau had wanted to leave. When LeBeau changed his mind, Newkirk had silently let out a thanks to whoever or whatever had caused the Frenchman to change his mind. And they had said no more about it after that.

And, at Carter's request, they were not saying anything about it now. Carter's idea was to let Newkirk think about it for as long as he had to; he was certain that, given the time to weigh all of the pros and cons, Newkirk would eventually decide to stay with the team as he, Carter, had done.

As they headed towards the magic theatre again (with Newkirk in disguise as Hogan had suggested), LeBeau had to make a conscious effort not to say anything. In his case, it had taken Hogan's offer of helping LeBeau free an underground agent to bring him back for a little while. It was after the caper had been pulled off successfully, and after he had been given a chance to think. But LeBeau was certain that if Hogan had not convinced him to come back initially, he would have kept going.

The three were suddenly jolted from their thoughts by a shrill scream.

"THIEF! THIEF!"

"What on Earth—?" Carter wondered.

He was cut off by a figure dressed in blue ducking out of the alley, carrying a gold chain in its hand. Even in the twilight of evening, the figure's hair and eyes were unmistakable… except that the person with those features was already beside him.

The hazel eyes of the familiar-looking stranger leered at them. His lips curled into a smirk, and, to the amazement of the trio, he spat out a flare of fire out of his mouth, as though taunting them. He then leaped straight into the air, landing on a trellis above a shop. He threw a crumpled ball of paper at the trio and proceeded to make his escape by hopping from trellis to trellis. Carter hastily picked up the paper and unfolded it, holding it for the others to read.

"_Dear twin, I say to you, don't fuss;  
_"_London's too small for the both of us.  
_"_So you'll take the blame for this attack.  
We'll meet again. Signed, Springheel Jack_."


	8. Change of Plans

The trio stared, stunned at the taunting message on the paper.

"He's toying with us!" Carter exclaimed, staring in the direction of where the creature had gone. "That… That… Repli-kirk is toying with us!"

"Repli-kirk?" LeBeau asked, looking at Carter as though he had lost his mind.

"Short for Replica Newkirk," the sergeant said. "What do you make of this, Peter?'

"I think I'm going mad," Newkirk hissed. "I should've sorted that impostor out the moment I saw 'im, not stand there like a fool as 'e jumps off with that loot and I get the blame for it!"

"Well, we know one thing—he's not going to stop until you're out of town," Carter said. "So we do know that he'll strike again—"

He was cut off by a woman—the theft victim, no doubt—dragging a policeman behind her.

"I saw him, Constable! That monster went that way!" she said. "Oh, he jumped straight into the air, and he had the ugliest face you ever saw!"

Newkirk scowled.

"Did you three see this bloke as he passed by?" the constable inquired of the trio, neither he nor the lady giving a second glance at the in-disguise Newkirk.

"Well, uh…" Carter began, not sure how much he wanted to reveal. "We saw _something_ go past here, jumping off of trellises. I didn't get a very good look at him, but maybe my French friend here did?"

"Ah, _oui_!" LeBeau said, and he gave a detailed description of the attacker—in French, which the constable could not follow.

The constable ignored him after he realized that he wasn't going to be of any further help, either, and surveyed Newkirk.

"And you? Would you be able to describe the attacker?"

"_Nein_," Newkirk said, in the gruff German accent he had used so many times during the war. It had saved him then, and it would hopefully save him now.

"I would say he's beyond description," Carter said. "When you see a guy jumping higher than an Olympic athlete and breathing fire, you're paying more attention to that than, say, his eye color or hair color. You know, I remember once when I was in Bullfrog, North Dakota, which is where I grew up—"

"Forget it," the constable said, heading off in the direction that the thief had taken.

The woman proceeded to head to the nearest police station to file her report, leaving the trio to themselves again.

"You know, if he catches that Repli-kirk, that'd put you in the clear," Carter offered, trying to offer some positive thoughts.

"And if 'e doesn't catch it, then I'm done in; someone will 'ave seen that the Springheel Jack looks like me," Newkirk said, reflecting on the irony of how he had been forced to use his German accent in his hometown, of all places. He couldn't quit the team now; it would only be a matter of time before his doppelganger committed more crimes.

"Well, we should get a better disguise for you," LeBeau said, thinking about the situation. "One that will keep you out of trouble should they come looking for you."

"Maybe be would dress you up as Frau Newkirkberger again," Carter suggested. "You don't happen to still have that dress, do you?"

"Are you mad? I got rid of that thing _and_ that ruddy skirt I 'ad to wear the time Louis, the colonel, and I impersonated those three girls. Blimey, that skirt was the absolute worst!"

"Oh, I don't know," Carter said. "You could've imagined that it was a kilt."

"Shut up," the Englishman countered, swatting Carter on the head with his hat before placing it back on his head.

But LeBeau snapped his fingers; the banter had just given him an idea.

"Of course! We can disguise him as a Scotsman!" the Frenchman exclaimed. "I still have those fake 'Jock McPhearson' dog tags from the Stalag 4 affair!"

"And I saw a kilt in that storage room at the theatre!" Carter added. "We can change him into that when we get there—maybe add on a beard on him, too!"

Newkirk slapped his forehead, quietly bemoaning his plight.

* * *

Hogan knew there was trouble when the trio failed to arrive at Newkirk's dressing room on time. Kinch left the room to see if he could pick up any information, and soon filled Hogan in on the rumor going around the theatre that the Springheel Jack II had struck again only minutes ago and had been last seen heading for this area.

"So now I have to hope that those three weren't detained—or worse," Hogan said. "If it really is Newkirk they're after, they could've easily waylaid him while he and the other two were on their way here. And we don't even know what those communist agents intend to do with them—swap our Newkirk for the fake? Have our Newkirk framed and behind bars? And what will happen to LeBeau and Carter? They just might be considered expendable."

"They wouldn't go down without a fight, Sir," Kinch said. "Even if they were ambushed on their way here—"

"There wouldn't even have _been_ a fight if that impostor had just a little bit of chloroform," the colonel said, shaking his head. "I never should've suggested that we come here separately."

Kinch was about to reply when the door to Newkirk's dressing room opened, revealing the trio. Newkirk was in his old disguise, but the Frenchman and the younger American were carrying a kilt, a false beard, and other parts of what was clearly a new disguise for the Englishman.

"Colonel, we saw him!" Carter exclaimed, his eyes wide. He launched into his story, showing Hogan the written taunt.

The colonel looked at the taunt, and then at Newkirk, who was staring blankly at the floor to avoid eye contact. It wasn't just the fact that someone was running around as him, maligning his name; the fact that there didn't seem to be anything in his power to strike back and regain his honor was humiliating.

"And I was saying that it's a safe bet that this Repli-kirk is going to try again," Carter finished. "So Louis had this idea of getting Peter a better disguise, and I got this Scotsman's outfit together from stuff in the storage area. Sorry we're late…"

"Better late than never, in this case," Hogan decided.

"Did you three happen to run into that Spanish lady when you arrived here?" Kinch asked.

All eyes turned to the staff sergeant, the trio shaking their heads.

"You saw her?" Hogan asked, frowning.

"In the lobby," Kinch agreed. "She was the one who said that the Springheel Jack was last seen in this area, and that she had seen the composite sketch from the last issue of the paper. She thought it was ridiculous that a member of the Royal Air Force would be involved in such a scandal. She says she's covering this story to get the truth out."

"How convenient," LeBeau said, darkly. He turned to Newkirk. "So, do you still think she has nothing to do with this? Under the disguise of someone trying to clear your name, she is the one sullying it!"

"Hey…!" Carter said, his eyes widening. "Why didn't I see it before? It was right here under our noses all along! Maybe that lady reporter is really Gretel! Hey, Kinch, you didn't happen to get a really close look at her, did you? Did she have blond roots in her hair, or maybe just a few stray blond hairs?"

"Why don't you make a ruddy list of the people you think are Gretel in disguise?" Newkirk asked. "I suppose you'll be saying that the real 'ochstetter and the real Gretel switched places just to throw us off!"

"Hey, we've got to look at all the possibilities, don't we?" Carter asked.

"Right, I'll grant you that we 'ave to find out who Gretel is disguising herself as," the corporal replied. "But you can't go around accusing everyone of being Gretel without proof. We'll take it one candidate at a time. We came 'ere to observe Pandora, so I say we stick with him for now. We'll move on to other suspects later, and just to satisfy you, Louis, we'll even scrutinize that reporter."

Newkirk was not about to admit this to LeBeau, but he was now beginning to doubt Miss Sandiego's integrity even more. But there still was a slim chance, of course, that she was telling the truth, and she really was trying to clear his name. If that was the case, then he needed all the help he could get.

Hogan was sensing that Newkirk's poor judgment of women was beginning to cloud his mind again, but this wasn't the time to discuss that. He was right about one thing—that they had to focus on one suspect at a time.

"Newkirk has a point," he said. "We came here for a reason, and we'll stick with Pandora tonight. The way she's been asking for interviews, I doubt we'll have trouble getting ahold of that reporter once we're ready for her. Newkirk, here's what I want you to do. Before you get into this new disguise, I want you to find that woman."

"Right, Sir," he said, baffled at the colonel's decision. "But I don't see—"

"Let me finish," Hogan went on. "You'll find her, and you'll tell her that you'll agree to have that interview with her on two conditions. One: the interview will be in one of the conference rooms at the hotel where Kinch and I are staying. Kinch will have a chance to make sure that there are no listening devices before we begin. And two: as your commanding officer during three of the five years you spent at Stalag 13, I have to be present and will order that questions will only be answered by you at my discretion. If she doesn't agree to those terms, then there will be no interview."

"How does that help us figure out what she is up to?" LeBeau asked. "And where do André and I fit into this?"

"I'll get to that later; first, let's have Newkirk set up a meeting with her first; we only go forward with step two if she agrees to our conditions."

"And what about the Springheel Jack, Colonel?" Kinch asked. "It's going to be tough having Newkirk around and in the open with his double running around."

"His fire-breathing double," Carter added. His eyes suddenly widened again. "Hey, wait a minute! Maybe Repli-kirk is—"

"Andrew, if you say that you think me double is really Gretel, I swear—"

"Well, we already established that Repli-kirk clearly has it in for you," Carter said. "And after you take into consideration that you were partly the reason why Gretel was disgraced, it is possible."

"Possible, but highly unlikely; it's difficult enough for a man to impersonate a woman and vice-versa," Hogan said. "But trying to impersonate a specific member of the opposite gender is even more difficult. I still don't know how LeBeau, Newkirk, and I pulled it off that night, impersonating those three USO girls. Even _Schultz_ saw through that one."

"It didn't 'elp that you chose to call 'im 'Fresh' in your real voice, _Kathy_…" Newkirk said, wryly. He wiped the smirk from his face as Hogan gave him a glare. "I'll go find the girl, Sir…"

He hastily exited the room, prompting LeBeau to turn to Hogan.

"I do not understand, _Colonel_; what do you hope to gain by having that girl interview Pierre? Why must we oblige her?"

"Because while she's busy interviewing Newkirk, you and Carter will be investigating the lady's residence," Hogan explained.

"Brilliant!" Carter said. "We can look around and see if she's involved with this plot to frame Peter!"

"There's just one thing," Hogan said. "I don't want anyone telling Newkirk about that part of the plan."

"But why, _Colonel_?" LeBeau asked. "I agree that Pierre sometimes does not use the best judgment when it comes to women, but I still do not think that—"

"It's for his own sake," said Hogan. "We're dealing with a highly organized group of spies; I recognized some of them in the pictures that von Schroeder showed me. I don't want that lady to realize that we're onto her—_if_ she's involved."

"So you think there's a chance she might be trying to help out after all?" Carter asked. "Though, I guess we couldn't even tell her anything if she really _was_ on the level—not that she'd be able to help, anyway."

"I honestly don't know what her real motives are," Hogan said, though the entire scenario seemed fishy. "That's what you and LeBeau are going to find out—assuming she goes for this arrangement. I know Newkirk will never reveal anything about the operation, but I'd still like to be there to see how this reporter works. I want to see if she'll try to hide anything while I'm around."

LeBeau and Carter exchanged glances and nodded.

"Kinch, after you make sure that the conference room is clear, I want you to stand by," Hogan went on. "Carter and LeBeau will call you if anything comes up. Use your code names in case she has listening devices in her place."

"Right, Sir," Kinch said. "But do you know where this lady is staying?"

Hogan responded by handing him a slip of paper.

"I looked into it after seeing the sketch in the paper this morning," he said. "I had a hunch that she was affiliated with this paper and I called them to ask about her; it turns out that she was just transferred here, but has rented a small house in Epping."

"If she's renting a house just outside of London, then that means she's probably got a lot of money already," Kinch said, handing the address to Carter and LeBeau.

"But if she's doing her reporting here, wouldn't it be cheaper to get an apartment in London?" Carter wondered aloud. "Either she's got a lot of money to throw, or someone's paying for her."

"And why anyone would have that much money to throw in post-war Europe is beyond me," Hogan added. "While it's possible that she had some benefactors, it's also possible that she's being paid by other employers."

"Well, I brought my camera for sightseeing," Carter added. "I can use it to capture evidence—"

"Colonel?" Newkirk asked, returning to the dressing room. "Colonel, she's right outside; she says she's willing to agree to your terms, and can schedule an interview as soon as tomorrow, if you like."

"Tomorrow will be fine," Hogan said. "We'll make it for 1500 hours, and we'll tell her which conference room to go to after she arrives."

Newkirk turned to the reporter, who was standing nearby.

"Tomorrow at 3:00?" he asked.

"That will be fine," she said. "I will meet you at the hotel."

She didn't stop to chat; after the time was set, she took her leave.

"Well, she didn't act like she had anything to hide," Carter said, prompting LeBeau to nudge him to keep him quiet.

Luckily for Carter, Newkirk wasn't even paying attention; the Englishman was dolefully gathering the pieces of his new costume, keen on disappearing into the crowd as quickly as possible.

"Newkirk?" Hogan asked.

"The police 'ave started searching the area," the corporal explained. "That double of mine really was seen 'ere. They might come looking for me if they were able to match me name to 'is face."

"We won't let them take you," the colonel assured him, wondering how none of them had seen the ersatz Newkirk here. "General Barton can pull enough strings to keep you out of jail until we clear your name."

"And even if he could not pull the strings, we would not let them lock you up," LeBeau agreed. The Frenchman was feeling slightly guilty for not being able to tell Newkirk about the assignment that he and Carter had been given.

Newkirk didn't seem to notice the Frenchman's expression, though; the Englishman was mulling over his own problems, which seemed to be growing by the minute. Being forced to wear a kilt was the least of his worries. Come to think of it, the fact that this Springheel Jack II was running around trying to pin these thefts on him wasn't even the greatest; it was the fact that there was no telling how far his impostor would go. And that was what worried the Englishman the most.

If Gretel was behind this, then her main objective was going to be to isolate Newkirk from his teammates—one way or another. And the Englishman seemed to be playing into her hands; he had been, after all, reconsidering his decision to rejoin the team. He knew he was going to see this mission through now; whether or not he continued depended on the assurance that Gretel would not lay a hand on the others. As long as she was at large, Newkirk could not rest.

The Englishman knew that Gretel would not be satisfied with trying to ruin his name. Once General Barton pulls the strings as Hogan promised, it would only be a matter of time until she—or whoever she is working with—takes things to the next level and targets his comrades.

It didn't matter if the deed hadn't been done yet; even with the very notion that such a thing could happen, it had now gotten much more personal.

* * *

_Author's Note_: _The kilt bit must be credited to Kirarakim. Also, the "Stalag 4 affair" LeBeau is referring to is episode 21, "The Great Impersonation," and Newkirk and Hogan are both referring to episode 28, "I Look Better in Basic Black."_


	9. Secrets and Discoveries

The show with Pandora didn't reveal anything suspicious about the performer, much to Carter's disappointment; the man's voice was too distinct for someone like Gretel—or any woman, for that matter—to replicate. In spite of the fact that Pandora's tricks were ones that could easily be used to inflict great harm on people, he did nothing that drew unwanted attention to himself. However, Carter ended up flinching every time that Pandora's poor, lovely assistant was locked in a box or basket and seemingly underwent various forms of horrible dismemberment as Pandora sawed her in half, stabbed her with swords, and turned her into a tiger. LeBeau flinched, as well, turning slightly green as Pandora added flair to the show with fake blood.

"I still don't think we can cross him off of our suspect list just yet," Hogan said, after the show had ended. "We've already established that the impostor works here at the theatre; we need someone to keep a close eye on him."

"I can ask Warwick to try to talk to 'im," Newkirk said, trying to cover up the forlorn tone of his voice. "Maybe I can ask 'im to negotiate the return of the tiger for a few shows; Warwick's been meaning to bring it up, anyway…"

"Good; you can set that up after tomorrow's interview," the colonel replied. He glanced at the trio, still concerned for them. "Are you three planning to return to Stepney tonight?"

"I'm not about to let that ruddy impostor drive me out of me own 'ome," Newkirk said. "I'll leave it up to Louis and Andrew if they'd rather spend the night elsewhere."

"What are you talking about? Of course we'll go back to Stepney with you!" Carter said. "Isn't that right, Louis?"

LeBeau, still feeling slightly nauseous after seeing the fake blood, gave a nod of agreement as a response.

Newkirk shook his head slightly at his French friend.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Little Mate, but I don't think show business is quite for you—at least in the magic world," he said. He bit back a smirk as LeBeau gave him a dark glare.

"All right," said Hogan, stopping the argument before it started. "Just be careful; that bug in Newkirk's apartment proves that they know where you are, so be on your guard in case that impostor—or anyone else—comes by."

"Right-o, Colonel," Newkirk said.

Satisfied, Hogan and Kinch took their leave, discussing the preparations they would be making for tomorrow's interview. The trio returned to Newkirk's apartment, thankfully without incident.

LeBeau was fine by morning, but he still made breakfast and lunch without much talk. Newkirk was surprised by this, knowing that the Frenchman frequently talked to himself when preparing food. Even Carter was quiet, which also surprised him.

"What's gotten into you two?" the Englishman wondered.

"We are just concerned for you," LeBeau answered. "You know I do not trust that woman; naturally, I must worry that she doesn't try to bring any harm to you or _le colonel_. And there is no point in discussing it with you since you keep insisting that she is innocent until proven guilty."

"Well, it would be bad to accuse her if she is innocent," Carter said. "Of course, if she isn't innocent and does try something, then that would be even worse."

"Brilliant deduction," Newkirk said, with a roll of his eyes. "But if we're lucky, we'll be able to figure out if she is trustworthy today."

"And, hopefully, we will all be around to discuss it," LeBeau finished.

The Frenchman was still trying to cover up his guilt for not being able to tell Newkirk about what he and Carter were going to be doing. In all honesty, he doubted that the Englishman would protest too much if he did know—checking out their contacts was something they had all done frequently during the war. And he would also understand why Hogan had ordered it to be kept quiet.

Carter did his part to successfully change the subject to how things were going with their families after the war. Newkirk sensed this abrupt change in conversation topics, but assumed that Carter was just being himself.

When lunchtime came, Newkirk ate quickly, explaining that Hogan wanted him at the hotel around 1:00 to discuss the answers he was going to give to Miss Sandiego.

"Are you sure you two will be fine 'ere?" he asked, as he got his good suit from his room.

"Sure; it's not like Hochstetter or Burkhalter will come driving up in their staff cars to see us," Carter joked.

"We will be fine, Pierre," LeBeau assured him. "Let us do the worrying."

"Right. Keep some extra places for dinner; it won't take too much persuasion to convince Kinch and the Guv'nor to come back 'ere with me, providing you aren't making that ruddy fish stew again."

"One of these days, Pierre, you will be begging me for my bouillabaisse," LeBeau promised. "And I will not make it until I see you on your knees, apologizing for all the insults you have given to my cooking."

"Yeah, that's right," the younger American offered. "Maybe on one of our exotic mission locations around the world, we'll come across some food that will cause you to beg for it. My cousin, Angry Rabbit, was in the Pacific during the war, and he told me about some of those local dishes—"

"Thank you, both of you," Newkirk said, taking into account that Carter was assuming he'd stay with them. He was still undecided about his decision, though he couldn't deny that the recent turn of events was making him realize just how essential a part of the team he was. Hogan's assurance that he would do whatever it took to keep him out of prison, along with the other's fervent agreement, meant more to the corporal than he had let on.

Carter managed a smile in response to Newkirk's thanks, though LeBeau was still avoiding Newkirk's gaze. The Englishman assumed that it was due to the Frenchman's suspicions.

"Louis, you know I'll be careful. I learned me lesson with Gretel, I did—"

He was cut off as a thud and a yelp emitted from the front room, followed by the sound of running feet. The trio arrived at the room to see the front door open.

"Someone tried to break in here again!" LeBeau hissed, furious.

"They must've tripped on the torn part of the carpet—that was the crash we heard!" Carter deduced. "Wow, that carpet probably saved our lives!"

Newkirk was silent for a moment as he stared at the open door.

"You two are coming with me," he said, flatly.

"But we can't!" Carter blurted out, without thinking, causing both corporals to stare at him for different reasons. "I mean… If we come along with you to the interview, that reporter is going to wise up to the fact that this whole thing is a setup!"

"If you two think that I'd leave you 'ere alone for one minute with that ruddy intruder liable to come back, you're crackers!" Newkirk retorted.

"Pierre, please," LeBeau said, feeling even guiltier now. "André is right; it will look too suspicious if she sees us all at the hotel."

"And if that _thing_ what was 'ere sees you, what will 'appen then?"

"Well, we do outnumber that intruder," Carter pointed out. "But if it makes you feel any better, Louis and I can take a walk around town or something."

"Ah, _oui_; we can even spend the next couple of hours on the outskirts of town," LeBeau offered. "That will probably be the safest place for us."

"I still don't like the idea of the two of you out and about like that," Newkirk said, frowning. "This ain't a place you're familiar with, and assuming that whoever was 'ere knows London well, it'd be easy for you to be followed. But maybe you'll be safer in Outer London; what do I know?" He pondered over their options. "Right; you go and do that. Meet me back 'ere around 5:00 or 5:30; the interview should be done by 4:00, if we're lucky, so it'll give Kinch and the Guv'nor time to make sure the place is secure."

LeBeau nodded.

"You go ahead and go, Pierre; I should put away the cookware and make sure that the fixings for dinner will be in a place where they cannot be tampered with. André and I will leave immediately after that."

Newkirk still didn't look satisfied, but he decided that he didn't have time to argue. It wasn't as though LeBeau and Carter couldn't look out for themselves, he knew; it was more that he hadn't quite gotten over being the worrier of the team. Realizing that there wasn't anything else he could do, he took his leave of his companions, even going so far as to dig as deep as he could into his pockets to give them cab and bus fare.

"Well," said Carter, once Newkirk had gone. "At least he knows the half-truth."

"But a half-truth is nothing more than half a lie," LeBeau countered, staring at the crinkled pound notes that Newkirk had handed him. "I understand the reasoning behind why we were not able to tell him, but it does not make me feel any better about it."

"Well, I'm not too crazy about it, either," the American admitted, trying to press the raised carpet back into place to make it look neater.

He frowned; something was in the way.

"Hey, what's this?" he asked, pulling an oddly-shaped object from under the carpet.

"The heel of a lady's shoe," LeBeau realized. "That intruder was a woman, and her shoe broke when she tripped on the carpet!"

"It's Gretel!" Carter exclaimed, his eyes dancing with excitement. "It has to be her! Hey, you know… if she _does_ come back, I think you and I could deal with her—no trouble at all!"

"We are still under orders," the Frenchman reminded him. "Though I will not deny that I have wished for a chance to get back at everything she put us through…" He shook his head. "Never mind; we must show this to Pierre."

"Too late; he's well on his way to the hotel by now, and he knows all the shortcuts," said Carter. "We can call Kinch at the hotel and ask him to let Peter know."

"Good idea. And also ask him to get a look at that reporter's shoes; there is also the chance that this belongs to her. If she is wearing new shoes, _voila_! That is all the proof we need to show Pierre that she was sneaking around here."

"Right," Carter agreed. "Come on; it's going to take us a while to get to Epping, and we've got limited time to look around, too."

"_Oui_; let's go…"

LeBeau moved for the door, but paused, once again staring at the hard-earned pound notes that Newkirk had handed over to him without a second thought. Shaking his head, he withdrew a wad of francs and placed it on Newkirk's dresser as a temporary exchange, intending to get the francs exchanged for pounds once he had the chance.

"You know he'll never accept it," Carter said, as they locked the door behind them.

"I know, I know…" LeBeau sighed. "Expect yet another argument tonight. It is lucky for me he has no idea what I did a month ago."

Carter glanced at the Frenchman, a curious expression on his face. He was not going to be satisfied without hearing an explanation, and LeBeau read it in the American's eyes.

"If you tell Pierre this, I swear you will see rage incarnate," the Frenchman warned. "Last month, I had my will modified."

Carter's eyes widened.

"You're leaving everything to Peter?" he surmised. "The restaurant, the things you inherited from your grandfather, and… everything?"

"Quiet!" the Frenchman whispered. "Yes. I have no desire to leave my ex-wife with anything, my family is well-off after receiving their shares of Grand-Père's inheritance, and, of course, I have left you and the others something—"

"Not that it matters," Carter said, truthfully.

"But Heaven knows Pierre needs the money more than I do, but he will not let me give him any of it!" LeBeau finished. "This way, he will have to take it. I figure he could sell the restaurant and take that to move out of that tiny apartment for good. And he can use whatever cash I have to make a better life for himself and his sister."

"Boy…" the American said, shaking his head. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I know I speak for everyone when I say we'd rather have you around. And if Peter ever found out what you did, he'd be furious!"

"And that is why you are not going to tell him anything," LeBeau said. He sighed, shaking his head. "Even then, I have to think of something else; I would much rather live to see him accept the money from me voluntarily."

"I suppose you could always play some gin games with him and throw them on purpose…"

LeBeau shook his head, rolling his eyes slightly, and both he and Carter lapsed into silence as they continued on to Epping, pausing only to call Kinch.

* * *

"You know, it's just so ironic," Carter commented at last, as LeBeau proceeded to pick the lock on Miss Sandiego's door using the method that Newkirk had once taught him. "You have to be so secret in order to _help_ Peter."

"It is his pride," LeBeau said. "He and I were in Stalag 13 for nearly five years; I arrived a couple months after he did. Throughout those five years, he never once let go of that pride. It was impossible for him to beg or plead."

"I think we all held onto some of our pride," Carter said. "I don't think we would've gotten through it, otherwise."

"True, but Pierre has always been like that, I think. He never actually said it, but I suspect that is why he became a thief instead of going around asking for help. He is still the same even now."

"Even though he knows we're here to help? Gee, he must be _really_ stubborn if that's the case…"

He trailed off as LeBeau managed to get the door open. From this point on, he and the Frenchman were utterly silent in case there was a bug or tape recorder in the house. The fact that they were searching the house in broad daylight proved to be a blessing—they could see everything.

To their disappointment, there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary as they went from room to room. A large collection of notebooks were on a work desk beside a typewriter, as was a stack of newspapers, the majority of them in Spanish.

LeBeau silently handed one of the Spanish papers to Carter, who shook his head; he did not know the language anymore than the Frenchman did. But the American's eyes suddenly widened as he pointed to an article that had been circled in the paper. The article wasn't written by her; it was written by another reporter. He indicated this to LeBeau, as well as pointing out the word "_robótica_" mentioned repeatedly in the article, which was not too difficult for them to translate.

LeBeau saw this and frowned; there had to be a reason why she was interested in another person's article on robotics.

There didn't seem to be anything else, however. As they searched the master bedroom, Carter casually opened the door of a walk-in closet, and promptly scrambled backward in a panic.

The Frenchman immediately was at his side, freezing in his tracks as he saw what had spooked Carter: a gurney was inside the closet, and a sheet was covering something upon it.

"_She has killed someone?_" LeBeau mouthed. "_Is that the body of one of her previous victims?_"

Carter shrugged his shoulders, helplessly. Knowing that Hogan would want to know who was under the sheet, he instructed LeBeau to turn away before he pulled the sheet off of the gurney.

His jaw dropped, and he repeatedly tapped LeBeau on the shoulder to get him to look.

LeBeau cautiously took a look, and then his eyes widened, too. There was a wide assortment of technology—various parts being pulled together to make some sort of remote-controlled spy machine that she was putting together.

"_Remember what Colonel Hogan said?_" Carter mouthed. "_Von Schroeder told him and Kinch that communication and mechanical equipment was taken during the robbery. She's building a… a spy robot out of the stuff! Boy, Kinch would sure have a field day if he saw this…_"

"_Take the pictures_," LeBeau mouthed in response. "_I want Pierre to get a good look at these._"

Carter nodded, pulling out some flash bulbs just to make sure that the lighting would be enough to get the details of the smaller parts.

LeBeau shut his eyes as Carter went to work with his camera, uttering a silent prayer. It was a worry to know that Newkirk and Hogan were now in the presence of someone who seemed to be a dangerous spy.

_Will you listen to me now, Pierre? Will you now agree that I was right about her all along?_

He sighed, silently, trying not to think about one of their many arguments. Right now, he was just hoping that he'd see both his friend and his commanding officer again.

* * *

_Author's Note_: _In regards to LeBeau's throwaway mention of his ex-wife, in episode 17, LeBeau ruefully mentioned about how he had been married. Judging by his tone, it's safe to assume that the marriage didn't last._


	10. The Interview

Newkirk was unaware of the discovery that his two friends were making at Miss Sandiego's house; he was more worried about whoever was after them. He pushed down the images of someone stalking his friends from the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to finish them off.

Hogan could tell that Newkirk was worrying; the corporal had explained what had happened upon arriving, much to the colonel's concern, as well.

"Well, we have one clue to the intruder," Kinch said, coming back down after receiving the call from Carter. "It's a lady—she lost her heel tripping over the torn carpet, and Carter found it when he was trying to get the carpet back in order."

"Oh, blimey; maybe Andrew's theories about Gretel skulking around ain't so farfetched after all," Newkirk said.

"LeBeau wants us to keep an eye on whether or not this reporter has new shoes when she shows up," Kinch added. "But Gretel is an option, of course."

"And she could be after Andrew and Louis right now…" Newkirk fumed. "Colonel, maybe we should tell that reporter that we've changed our minds."

But Hogan shook his head in response.

"That reporter will get suspicious if we do," he said. "We've got to go through with this—and so does she."

"Come again?" Newkirk asked, not sure by what he meant.

"You just wait, Newkirk," Hogan said. "She's going to ask about Stalag 13—about the operation. She has to; if she's really a serious reporter, she'll want the scoop. And if she's a spy, she'll want the information to give to her employers. One way or another, she'll ask about it. I'm counting on you to make sure she goes back to either the paper or her boss empty-handed as far as Stalag 13 is concerned."

"Don't worry, Sir," Newkirk promised. "It's like I told Louis—I learned me lesson with Gretel."

"All the same, we need to practice your answers for some of those nosy questions," Hogan said. "You can't make it obvious that you're trying to hide anything, either. That's why I called you here so early."

For the next few hours, Hogan and Kinch came up with a list of possible questions that the reporter might try to use. Newkirk learned his part beautifully, ready to answer any questions put forth to him. They had extra time to practice; the reporter arrived at 3:30—half an hour after the appointed time.

"Ah, I'm sorry I'm late," Miss Sandiego said, as she entered the conference room. "My boss was discussing my last article with me."

"Blimey, we were wondering if you 'ad changed your mind," Newkirk said, as Hogan tried not to look suspicious.

Kinch's eyes fell upon the lady's shoes as she greeted them. The shoes didn't look new, but it didn't clear her name, by any means. Suppressing a sigh, the sergeant took his leave in case Carter or LeBeau called.

"By your permission, Colonel Hogan, I would like to begin the interview," Sandiego said, bringing Newkirk back to the present.

"If you're certain you don't mind my supervision, you two can get started," Hogan said.

"Excellent," she said. "Corporal Newkirk, I think we'll start with your squadron before your capture. You served under Squadron Leader Rawles—now Wing Commander Rawles, correct?"

"Oh, was 'e promoted?" Newkirk asked. _Blimey, even old Rawles was promoted, and I'm still a ruddy corporal?_

"You didn't keep in touch with your old squadron leader?" Sandiego asked.

"We didn't exactly get along too well; the man thought I was a ruddy coward—not that 'e was wrong," Newkirk said. "I was drafted—only went to fulfill me service to the king. I wanted to survive the war for me sister, see, so I made me career in the RAF being cautious—or as cautious as Rawles would allow."

"You are an orphan, I take it?"

"I might as well be," Newkirk sighed. "Me mum died when I was still attending school, and I 'aven't seen me dad in years."

"I see," she said. "So can you tell me how long you served under Rawles? How and when were you were captured?"

"I served under Rawles for only about five months—the first five months of 1940," Newkirk said. "After France fell, Rawles 'ad the squadron cover the retreat at Dunkirk from the air. I 'ad a close friend—'e and I and a few others were shot down that evening, and I was the only one who survived. I tried to make it to the boats where everyone else was retreating to, but… I was captured."

"Were you always in Stalag 13?" Sandiego asked.

"For five ruddy years," Newkirk said.

"You didn't try to escape?" she asked, sounding surprised.

"Oh, we all tried to escape," Newkirk said. "I believe I've been marked down for more than a dozen escape attempts."

"No one ever escaped from Stalag 13," Hogan lied. "Goodness knows we tried."

The reporter gave a nod to Hogan and turned back to Newkirk.

"You appear to be very close with your barracks-mates," she said. "I understand you've been with them ever since the night of the reunion."

Newkirk blinked.

"Who told you…?"

"I spoke with a friend of yours the other day, when I was on the way to your apartment to speak with you," Sandiego explained, smiling. "Roger Turner."

Newkirk refrained from rolling his eyes, making a mental note to himself to have a word with Roger about his discretion, or lack thereof.

"Well," the corporal said. "When you spend five years in a place like that, you've got two choices—you can either wall yourself off and survive as a loner, or you can form alliances. I chose the latter, and it made it… bearable."

"You obviously hold a great deal of respect for Colonel Hogan here," Sandiego said. "Tell me about that."

Newkirk glanced at Hogan, who glared at the reporter out of the corner of his eye.

"Not much to tell, really…" said Newkirk. "The Guv'nor organized things like shows and exercises for us to do to stop us from going bored out of our skulls. And 'e always tried to bargain with Colonel Klink if one of us ended up in solitary confinement. Cor, 'e's gotten me out of the cooler more times than I can count…"

"Any reason why you always ended up in there?" she asked.

"Oh, you know… an escape attempt one night, a fight a few days later…"

Miss Sandiego turned the page of her small notebook and paused, looking into the Englishman's eyes.

"I visited Germany not too long ago to see the sights and meet a couple of faces. There were the strangest rumors about Stalag 13—escaped fliers coming in and out, tanks crashing through rec halls, high-ranking German officials mysteriously disappearing, and high sabotage activities in the surrounding areas…"

Both Newkirk and Hogan remained expressionless.

"We 'eard those rumors, too," Newkirk said. "And believe me, if there really was a chance for us to go 'ome, we would've taken it."

"So you don't know who Papa Bear is?" she asked.

Newkirk pretended to look confused.

"I thought 'e was a fairy tale character, wasn't 'e?"

"Papa Bear was a master spy and saboteur who operated in the Hammelburg area during the war," she said. "The identity of Papa Bear is a mystery—and a well-guarded secret."

"Don't ask me, Luv; nobody tells me anything," Newkirk said. "And it's a ruddy frustration, too."

"I am sure it was," she said. "And I assume that this current situation with the Springheel Jack is also a 'ruddy frustration,' isn't it?"

"Too right, it is," Newkirk said. "Just because the bloke looks like me, people are jumping to conclusions. I don't deny that I was a thief in me younger years, but I resent that me past makes me a prime suspect now."

"Why, though, would this Springheel Jack look like you?"

"Good taste, I'd like to think…"

"But this man is clearly trying to frame you for these crimes," Sandiego said. "Can you think of any reason why someone would want to do this to you?"

"I wouldn't know," Newkirk lied. "I'm just a performer—do a little tailoring on the side to pick up some money when I can. But I can't imagine why anyone would 'ave it in for me like this."

"If it makes you feel any better, I intend to find out the truth about this new version of the Springheel Jack," she assured him. "You don't seem like the type to do those sorts of violent robberies."

The interview continued in this manner. Miss Sandiego was rather prudent in her choice of questions; Hogan didn't have to insist that Newkirk skip any questions, as the questions she did ask could easily be answered with the lies they had practiced. The reporter thanked the both of them and left soon after they had finished.

"Well, Colonel, what do you think?" Newkirk asked, as they headed outside the conference room. "You were right about 'er asking about Stalag 13, but does that mean anything?"

"I don't know," Hogan said, honestly. "She's a hard one to read. Until we can learn for certain whether she is or isn't a spy, we have to treat her as though she is one…" The colonel trailed off as he noticed Kinch talking to the receptionist.

"You're absolutely certain that no more calls came in?" the staff sergeant was asking.

"Only the one call I put through earlier," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"Kinch? What is it?" Hogan asked.

"You know that Carter and LeBeau called before that reporter got here—that was when they told me to look at her shoes, and that they were going to Epping. But that was hours ago. They promised to call back, but no other calls have come in."

Newkirk paled.

"When exactly did you say they called?" the corporal asked. "They left shortly after I did—just after lunch."

Kinch looked at the lobby clock. The interview had taken much longer than they had anticipated; it was almost 5:00.

"I'd say about four-and-a-half hours ago," Kinch said.

Hogan's face was set with an unreadable expression as his mind raced. Carter might be one to get too caught up in the moment to remember to call, but LeBeau was not the type to do so; the Frenchman would have found a way to get in touch with them. There was no way of knowing whether or not they had made it to Sandiego's house, or if they had made it out. Chances were that the reporter was on her way there now; there was no telling what would happen if Carter and LeBeau were caught on the premises.

"Sir, we 'ave to go find them," Newkirk said. "They don't even know their way around the area, and if they promised to call but didn't—"

"Hold it," Hogan said. "One thing to keep in mind is that this is London, not Hammelburg. Newkirk, you and Kinch go back to your apartment and make sure that no one's tampered with anything in there. I'll go to Epping myself."

"But, Sir, I know the area better—"

"You'd also know your own apartment better than Kinch or me," Hogan said, cutting him off. "I've been to London before, you know."

"Right, Sir…" Newkirk said, slightly subdued. He silently turned his thoughts to his two friends, regretting that he didn't insist upon having them come along with him as he had wanted.

* * *

LeBeau and Carter, in the meantime, were having their own difficulties. Carter had taken as many pictures of the robotics as LeBeau kept watch. Once the sergeant had finished, he gave a thumbs-up to the corporal. LeBeau nodded in response and led the way downstairs, but paused halfway down the stairway.

The front door was unlocking.

Gritting his teeth, LeBeau frantically motioned for Carter to go back upstairs. The Frenchman looked behind him as he followed, and his jaw dropped.

Newkirk had entered into the hallway. But something was wrong, LeBeau realized; he didn't get the same vibes he usually received whenever Newkirk entered the room.

Carter looked back, stunned for a moment, but then moved to call out to him. LeBeau sensed this and quickly clapped his hand over the sergeant's mouth. Carter's eyes widened, but he got the message.

Silently, the duo watched from the top of the stairs as "Newkirk" took a look around cautiously before heading over to the desk, rifling through it thoroughly, as though looking for valuables.

LeBeau's eyes narrowed now, and Carter's mouth fell open in shock.

"_That isn't Peter!_" the sergeant mouthed. "_It's Repli-kirk!_"

LeBeau gave a solemn nod, his mind seriously considering attacking this impostor who was seemingly set upon ruining his cherished friend's reputation.

Carter had other ideas. Slowly, he took out his camera; the light pouring in from the window was bright enough to get some pictures of the impostor. As quietly as he could, Carter began to take a few pictures as the thief went about his work.

The doppelganger suddenly paused after Carter had taken a few pictures, causing both men on the stairs to freeze. Had he heard the camera shutter clicking?

LeBeau didn't want to wait to find out. He quietly waved Carter back even further until they were both on the landing of the staircase. They could no longer see the impostor, but it also meant that, hopefully, he would not be able to see them.

"_We need to get out of here—at once!_" LeBeau mouthed.

"_How?_" Carter mouthed back. "_We'd have to go downstairs and get past him if we wanted to get out. Unless you're suggesting we make a rope from the bedsheets, we're trapped! And even if we did, people would realize someone was in here!_"

LeBeau gave him a withering look and pointed downstairs.

"_Oh, right… he __is__ in here_," Carter mouthed in realization. "_But that's no good, either! If someone sees him here, Peter will get the blame!_"

"_I know, I know. Give me a moment to think_…"

The Frenchman looked around, trying to come up with a solution to their problem. There had to be a way for them to escape the house without attracting attention.

"_I think we have no alternative but to use a bedsheet rope_," he mouthed at last. "_We will just have to count on us being able to keep the real Pierre out of prison_."

Carter gave a nod, realizing that their options were limited.

Slowly, the duo crept across the upper landing to get to the guest bedroom, which was the closest to them. Taking great care to ensure that they would not cause the floor to creak under their wait, they both moved, catlike, to the room door as the sounds of rummaging started up again from downstairs.

Carter slowly turned the doorknob and tried to ease the door open, but the door protested with a slow, loud creak, which caused the sergeant to grit his teeth in nervousness. LeBeau responded by silently cursing in his native tongue.

The rummaging sounds stopped from downstairs again as the impostor heard the creaking; Carter was amazed that his heart seemingly hammering in his ears wasn't drowning out his ability to hear what was going on downstairs.

"Who's up there? You 'ad best beware!" the Newkirk impostor taunted, even imitating their comrade's voice. But the doppelganger's taunting tone was something absent in the real Newkirk's—the impostor seemed to be rhyming on purpose.

LeBeau didn't care about the rhyming, however; the Frenchman's eyes blazed in fury to hear his friend's voice being used by another throat.

Carter didn't seem to care about the rhyming, either, but that was because he was trying edge inside the guest room as quietly as he could.

"_Louis, come on!_" he mouthed. "_We still might have a chance to get out of here! Let's go!_"

But footsteps could be heard from downstairs—jumping footsteps; though the duo couldn't see from their position, it was clear that the impostor was hopping towards the staircase, with every intent to come up and look around.

"_Louis_!" Carter mouthed, desperately.

The Frenchman's mind was racing again. He had every opportunity to bag the impostor right now as he approached. On the other hand, there was every chance in the world that the goon was armed.

The bounding footsteps now started up the stairs, each one counting down the limited time the Frenchman had to make his choice.


	11. No News is Bad News

Carter was not going to wait for LeBeau to make his decision. As the Newkirk impostor bounded up the stairs in typical Springheel Jack fashion, the sergeant pulled the corporal inside the room, pulling both of them under the tiny space under the bed.

LeBeau silently cursed, keeping his eyes shut. He didn't trust himself to look at his surroundings for fear that his claustrophobia would start up again—working in the tunnels beneath Stalag 13 had temporarily desensitized him to enclosed spaces, but he had no chances to keep up this "treatment" method in the past two years since the war's end.

The impostor could be heard leaping around outside in the corridor, opening one room after another, eventually arriving in the guest room. LeBeau still didn't open his eyes, but Carter watched as the impostor's feet bounded into his line of vision.

The impostor opened the closet, not uttering a sound as he looked around. As he opened the closet door, something slipped from his hand and landed on the carpeted floor. Carter's eyes widened; even in the dim light of the setting sun, the sight of green gemstones on a brooch was unmistakable.

The fake Newkirk cursed and picked up the brooch before continuing his search of the room. Thankfully, the double didn't think of looking under the bed, and he left the room soon after. Carter let out a silent sigh as the impostor's footsteps suddenly switched to regular walking as he headed down the staircase once again.

The faint sounds of the ersatz Newkirk rifling through the room downstairs resumed, and it was only then that LeBeau and Carter crawled out into the open.

"_We might be able to apprehend him_," LeBeau mouthed.

Carter shook his head.

"_He could be armed; the colonel wouldn't want anything to happen to us_," he mouthed back.

"_But it certainly means a lot that he is here, in the reporter's house_."

"_Does it?_" Carter wondered. "_Listen to that noise downstairs. He's looking for something._"

LeBeau jerked his head towards the master bedroom.

"_That robotics equipment?_" he offered.

Carter gave a half-nod.

"_Maybe, but I think he's just looking for more jewelry; I saw him drop an emerald brooch_," the sergeant explained. "_Come on; let's get out of here._"

He moved to seize a couple of sheets from the bed, tied them together and then to the bedpost, and worked his way down after making sure that no one was nearby. LeBeau followed, finally letting out an audible sigh as they snuck into the shrubbery and crept off of the property. Casually, the duo walked down the street, heading for the bus stop.

"Well, we certainly had an eventful afternoon," the American commented. "And we even got pictures of the robotics and Repli-kirk."

"I just wish I could've put that impostor in his place," LeBeau muttered. "If I had done so, I could have easily cleared Pierre's name."

"Well, it's like I said back there—he could've easily killed you. Even during the war, we avoided direct attacks whenever possible."

"True," LeBeau admitted. "We always worked best from the shadows."

"That makes us sound almost sinister," Carter mused. "Hey, it'd be great for a movie. 'From the darkness they come, and into the darkness they retreat when their task is done: the Shadow Heroes!'"

"The 'Shadow Heroes' would benefit from making sure that no one's following them as the evening darkness falls," Hogan's voice issued from right behind them.

Carter and LeBeau both jumped.

"Colonel!" Carter exclaimed. "Boy, do we have stuff to tell you! We only just got out of that place, and… Why are you here? I thought you and Kinch were with Peter."

"In case you two were unaware of the current time, it's a quarter to six," Hogan said.

LeBeau sighed.

"_Pardon, Colonel_—I know we promised to call Kinch, but we only got out of the house just now. And it would have been most unwise to use her phone. Was Kinch very worried?"

"Yes, and Newkirk's _past_ worried. By this point, you two should consider yourself lucky if the most you get from him is a punch on the nose when you get back. I had to come out here so that _he_ wouldn't. Come on; we're taking the bus back."

LeBeau and Carter exchanged sheepish glances as Hogan led them along.

"We're sorry, Sir," the young American said. "It's like I was saying—you wouldn't believe what we saw in there. It's why we weren't able to leave—"

"_Colonel_, Pierre's double is in there—the Springheel Jack!"

Hogan's eyes widened. He knew there had to have been a good reason for why they had not called, and, by the sound of it, his hunch was right.

"Yeah—I told Louis that it was a good idea not to try to confront him until we got the okay from you, in case he was armed or something. We got out through the second-floor window with the old bedsheet rope trick."

"Should we go back and confront him, _Colonel_? If we capture him, we can clear Pierre's name!"

"No; he's likely to have left by now," Hogan said. "He'll have gotten out of there the moment he got a look at your escape rope. But now we're onto something; it can't be a coincidence that you saw Newkirk's double at the reporter's house. What was he doing in there?"

"He was looking for stuff to steal, I think," Carter said. "I saw him with an emerald brooch. But Louis thinks he might also be after the robotics equipment we found in the master bedroom."

Hogan gave Carter a long stare.

"Maybe you'd better tell me the whole story from the beginning."

* * *

The search through Newkirk's apartment yielded nothing in the way of hidden microphones or any spy equipment that might have been left behind. Left with nothing else to do but wait, they turned on the radio, Kinch half-listening to it as he watched Newkirk pace.

Kinch didn't blame Newkirk for pacing the apartment while he incessantly muttered under his breath—a combination of his vocal worries for LeBeau and Carter, as well as few British curses. But the staff sergeant seemed to be getting tenser himself with every round that Newkirk made as he paced.

"Maybe we should both have a cup of coffee," he suggested.

Newkirk took a look at the coffeepot.

"I don't know, Kinch—that lot 'as been in the pot since morning. Drink that, and we won't get any sleep tonight."

"I doubt either of us could get any sleep at this point even if we didn't drink it."

"…Good point…"

Newkirk put the coffeepot back on the stove to reheat it and resumed pacing while Kinch temporarily turned his attention back to the radio. He soon turned back to Newkirk after a few more minutes of pacing.

"Look," said Kinch. "I'm sure there's a good reason why they didn't call. Carter's the one most likely to forget—you know that."

"Maybe Andrew is, but not Louis," Newkirk said, flatly. "Louis knows the way I think."

Newkirk slammed his hand down on the table.

"I tell you, Kinch, that ruddy fool drives me completely mad. Louis knows exactly what gets me goat, and more often than not, 'e gets it. 'e never cooks English food, 'e always 'as to argue with me over every little thing and always must win, and 'e never misses a chance to patronize me. And 'ere I am, worried sick that Louis might not come through that door. Cor blimey, is there even a name for this?"

"Last time I checked, it was called 'brotherly love.'"

Newkirk froze in his tracks, turning his head towards Kinch and staring at him in a mixture of wonder and admiration. He nodded.

"That explains a lot—why didn't I think of it before? Louis and I must've been brothers in a previous life. Andrew, too…"

"And Carter doesn't get your goat at all?"

"Oh, 'e does, but purely by accident."

Kinch chuckled in response, turning his attention back to the radio as the newscaster droned on. Newkirk went to get the coffee, lost in his own thoughts as he got a pair of mugs and placed them on the counter.

He had just taken the coffeepot over to the mugs when the newscaster's voice suddenly turned serious.

"_We are now receiving conformation of the reports that a murder has just taken place in Epping. Details are still pending, but it is believed that this murder is connected to the recent rash of the Springheel Jack sightings and robberies around Greater London—_"

A loud, metal clang issued from the kitchen as Newkirk dropped the coffeepot. He yet out a strangled yell as the hot liquid splashed onto his feet, but he leaped out of the kitchen, tearing his slippers off as he ran where Kinch was with radio.

"You said they were in Epping?" Newkirk asked Kinch, his eyes filled with unbridled fear. "And they didn't call…"

"Hold on," Kinch said. "Are you sure _you_ all right? You weren't burned by the coffee, were you?"

"Oh, for the love of 'eaven, forget about me!" Newkirk responded, turning up the volume of the radio. "Was there any description of the victim?"

The newscaster didn't give him anymore information—she didn't know the details, either. Newkirk stared despondently at the radio as he sunk to his knees. He barely heard Kinch saying that he had to calm down and not automatically assume the worst. But the Englishman was now mentally berating himself. His sixth sense had told him—practically _screamed_ at him—not to let LeBeau and Carter go off to Outer London alone…

The Englishman barely even heard the door open, but he did hear Carter's cheerful "We're back!"

To Newkirk, it almost sounded like the voice of an angel.

He turned to see LeBeau, Carter, and Hogan carefully avoiding the torn part of the carpet as his ears also registered Kinch's quiet prayer of thanks. Newkirk then ran forward, practically pulling LeBeau over the ruined carpet, as he weighed the least, and launched into full fury as he ranted at him.

LeBeau stared at Newkirk in utter shock for the first ten seconds of the rant before beginning to counter in his native tongue, but at the same volume. Carter stared at them, his eyes widening from the spectacle, as well as the knowledge that it would be his turn next once Newkirk had finished with the Frenchman.

"He actually seems more upset than I thought he'd be," Hogan admitted, looking to Kinch.

"Well, we heard over the radio that they just confirmed that a murder took place in Epping not too long ago. Newkirk, of course, jumped to conclusions," Kinch explained. "And I have to admit that I was beginning to make a jump, myself…"

"_What_?" Hogan asked, flatly. After hearing Carter and LeBeau's story on the bus ride back about the robotics and the fake Newkirk showing up, he realized that he should not have been so surprised about an incident occurring in Epping. But, still… a murder? Were they that desperate to frame Newkirk?

Hogan shook his head. They would have to tell Newkirk the entire truth about the situation and the interview set-up, and that things were getting more complicating—and dire.

"All right, hold it!" he ordered, but LeBeau and Newkirk went right on yelling at each other. "HOLD IT!"

Both corporals' heads turned, their eyes wide and faces red.

"Brotherly love," Kinch explained to Hogan, wryly.

Hogan bit back a smirk and continued.

"Newkirk, you may as well know that it wasn't LeBeau and Carter's idea to go to Epping; it was mine. I found out the address of that reporter and had instructed them to take a look around while you kept her busy in town."

Newkirk blinked. He wasn't upset by this revelation, thankfully, though he was slightly disappointed that he hadn't been privy to this information.

"Did they find anything?" he inquired.

"Did we ever!" Carter exclaimed, waving his camera. "We've got your double on film!"

"You mean 'e was there, in Sandiego's place?" Newkirk asked, stunned. "What was he doing?"

"Robbing it, we think," LeBeau said, his voice still somewhat cool. "André saw him take a piece of jewelry. We had to hide when he heard us upstairs and had to sneak out later; that is why we were unable to call."

"Blimey, maybe 'e went after 'er because she said she wanted to 'elp clear me name. Cor, you don't think that was 'er who was killed, do you?"

"Before you start worrying about her, you may as well know that she was not innocent, either," LeBeau went on, wanting to be the one to break the news to him. "We found under-construction robotics in her bedroom."

"Robotics?" Kinch repeated, intrigued.

"Yeah, and we got those on film, too!" Carter grinned. "She also had saved a bunch of Spanish articles on robotics—she didn't even write them, but they were all circled and everything."

"So you see, Pierre, I was right about her all along!" LeBeau said. "She is a spy!"

"As you say in your language, Louis—_au contraire_. That Springheel Jack is doing 'is best to frame me. 'e could easily be trying to frame that reporter, too."

He didn't really believe this—and everyone in the room knew it. This was just a matter of not admitting to LeBeau that he was right, especially after all the worry that the Frenchman had put him through. And even though LeBeau knew this was a matter of pride, he was still not about to let Newkirk win.

"_Imbécile_, you are grasping at straws! You are worse than André and his long list of people he thinks could be Gretel!"

This would have kicked off the yelling between them all over again, except that Hogan intervened.

"Boy," Carter sighed, as the colonel restored peace. "I shudder to think what you two would do if you didn't really care about each other… After what Louis told me about—"

"_Shut up_!" the Frenchman hissed, worried that he was referring to his will.

"—About how he wanted to apprehend that impostor," Carter finished, making LeBeau go red again.

"One problem with your gallant plan, Louis," Newkirk said. "Just 'ow would you take on someone who is a copy of _this_ flawless physical specimen?"

"Let me demonstrate, I implore you; it would be my pleasure."

Kinch shook his head. Newkirk was right—they really must have been brothers in another time and place.

"Enough," Hogan said. "Things have just gotten even more serious with this latest report. Getting Newkirk framed for robberies is one thing. But now they've taken this to the level of murder."

"You'll still be able to pull those strings, won't you, Sir?" Newkirk asked, more concerned than he was letting on.

"Of course I will, but it'll be harder," the colonel admitted. "I suggest getting back into that Scotsman's disguise and not getting out of it at all."

"Aye," Newkirk answered, in his best Scottish accent. He failed to fully hide how upset he was by this recent twist, and even LeBeau's anger began to dissipate as he felt compassion for his friend. In hindsight, Newkirk snapping at him was something he should've expected.

"Look on the bright side, Peter," Carter said, placing a hand on the Englishman's shoulder. "Things couldn't possibly get any worse, can they?"

"I reckon they can't," Newkirk admitted. He felt the familiar arm of LeBeau around him, and he took a moment to marvel at how their behavior towards each other had changed in a matter of seconds.

"Kinch, turn the radio up," Hogan said. "I want to hear if they find out anything else about the Epping murder."

"Sure, but they're on the international headlines at the moment," Kinch said, turning up the volume.

"_German Intelligence is shaken to the core after a raid was launched on one of its maximum-security prison facilities in Heidelberg earlier today_," the newscaster said. "_Though the attackers are still, at this time, unknown, it has been confirmed that only one inmate has escaped—convicted war criminal Wolfgang Hochstetter. Investigations are being launched to determine how the breach occurred and if the attackers had received help from the inside_."

All eyes turned to Carter, who gave a sheepish smile.

"I knew I should've listened to Mom when she said to never tempt fate…"


	12. A Private World of Doubt

Hogan soon switched off the radio; he wanted quiet to think—now they had one more thing to worry about. The only possible consolation was that Hochstetter would have to go into hiding; he wouldn't be foolish enough to try to sneak into London now.

Their main concern was determining what to do with Newkirk's growing problem. The Englishman, realizing the weight of his situation, sat forlornly in his Scotsman's disguise. LeBeau stood against the wall, his arms folded as he watched Newkirk sit there. There were plenty of things LeBeau wanted to say, but he was choosing to hold his tongue.

"We don't have much of a choice as far as Hochstetter is concerned," Hogan said. "The most we can do is alert General Barton; he'll spread the word to where it needs to go and make sure that Hochstetter will have no haven here. Chances are, ten to one, he's going to seek refuge in Soviet-controlled Germany; if that's the case, then it's going to be tougher to go in and recapture him."

"Then that's probably where he's headed," Carter said. "It's just like him to try something sneaky like that—"

"Andrew, you've already tempted fate once tonight and lost," Newkirk said. "Don't jinx us further!"

"Sorry…"

"I'll get in touch with General Barton tonight once Kinch and I get back to the hotel," Hogan went on.

"But what about Pierre and the murder charges?" LeBeau asked.

"Well, no one has approached Newkirk about the Springheel Jack robberies—so maybe no one has matched his name to the impostor's face," said Hogan. "Hopefully, that'll last, but I doubt it. Whoever the impostor is, or whoever he's working for, will drop Newkirk's name to the police; it's not a question of 'if'—it's 'when.'"

"That is realistic," Kinch agreed.

"How come whenever I predict something, it's 'tempting fate,' but it's 'realistic' if it's the colonel saying it?" Carter inquired.

"It's because 'e's the Guv'nor," Newkirk countered, still as sharp-witted as ever. "Let the man continue."

"Thank you, Newkirk," Hogan said. "It's not to say that the situation is completely hopeless. We do have one thing to our advantage—something that neither the impostor nor his employers know about. Carter has him on film. First thing in the morning, I want you to get that film developed."

"You got it, Boy! Uh, Sir!"

"Newkirk, be sure to give him the name of a photo developer you can trust, but don't actually go with him."

"Right-o, Sir."

"Carter, after you get the film developed, bring it straight to Kinch and me at the hotel. We'll go to the police station with this evidence."

"How do we explain how I was in there to get the pictures?" Carter asked. "That is a private house, and all that…"

"Leave that to me; I can play the confidential military investigation card if I have to," Hogan assured him. "LeBeau? It's going to be up to you to keep Newkirk out of the hands of the enemy."

"_Oui, mon Colonel_—"

"With all due respect, Sir, I don't need Louis acting like a mother 'en to keep me safe."

"Maybe you don't need a mother hen, but you'll do what Papa Bear tells you."

"Yes, Sir…"

LeBeau muttered something in his own tongue, his annoyance and anger beginning to build up again. If Newkirk only knew everything that LeBeau had done and planned for his benefit, maybe then he'd show some gratitude… No, of course not; Newkirk would be more livid than grateful if he found out about the will.

The Frenchman sighed. It seemed as though he just could not win.

"Other than that," Hogan went on, pulling LeBeau back to the present. "There isn't anything else we can do at the moment. Carter, we'll see you tomorrow; we'll make any further plans after seeing how the pictures go over with the police."

He and Kinch took their leave, leaving the trio behind.

Newkirk jotted down an address and handed it to Carter.

"There's the address of someone who can get the photos developed," he said. "Friend of Philip's, and I've met 'im a couple of times. Just mention me name to 'im and tell 'im I was too busy to be there meself."

"Right," Carter said, pocketing the information in his jacket. "Well, we've got the rest of the evening to kill."

"Maybe you do; I have to go and finish preparing the dinner!" LeBeau muttered, heading towards the kitchen. Upon seeing the coffee all over the floor, he let out an anguished cry. "What have you done to the kitchen?"

"I only scalded me foot with that ruddy coffee because I was worried about you two after 'earing about the Epping murder!" Newkirk retorted.

"We are not children, Pierre!" LeBeau snapped, looking around for something to clean the floor with. "You worry about us far too much!"

"I 'ave every right to—the both of you don't know your way around 'ere, and we already established that there is Gretel and that impostor prowling around!"

Carter cleared his throat.

"Uh, if Stealthy Cat Who Masks Worry With Anger will just calm down for a moment, you might remember that I got the impostor on film, which will hopefully clear your name."

"Well, you just… What do you mean 'Stealthy Cat Who Masks Worry With Anger?'"

"That's my Sioux nickname for you. See, you're like a cat since you can sneak into things, and you really do mask worry with—"

"Oh, shut up!"

LeBeau continued to grumble as he resorted to using the dish towel to clean the floor.

"It was foolish to think that you would have any gratitude towards André for getting those photographs," he said, repeatedly wringing out the towel and going back to his knees. "You do not seem to realize what this could mean. It means that you do not have to be in that disguise, and that the police will help in trying to stop Gretel and the impostor—and that reporter!"

"That's only if they believe the ruddy idea that someone is trying to frame me by posing as me!" Newkirk said. "Just 'ow is the Guv'nor going to explain why someone would impersonate a corporal?"

"_Now_ who's tempting fate?" Carter asked. "Oh, wait—you're just being 'realistic…'"

"And furthermore," Newkirk said, not even acknowledging Carter. "I don't think it was very wise putting yourself or Andrew at risk just to get a blooming photo—"

He was cut off by the coffee-soaked dish towel smacking him in the face.

"Oh, boy…" Carter said, flinching. _This isn't going to end well_…

He was right, of course; this launched into another argument between the two corporals, leading Carter to stand watch in the kitchen and make sure that LeBeau didn't accidentally burn their dinner.

* * *

The argument didn't stop, even though the corporals had to call a temporary truce so that they could sleep. Eager to get out of the apartment before the argument started again, Carter grabbed a piece of buttered bread for breakfast and headed out the door to have the photos developed.

Newkirk, on the other hand, was in a stubborn streak as far as LeBeau was concerned. Though he noticed that the Frenchman was preparing breakfast, the Englishman announced that he would be have "pub grub" for breakfast at the Red Lion, which launched the argument all over again.

"Are you mad?" LeBeau called, as Newkirk went to get his jacket. "_Colonel_ Hogan said that I was not to allow you to leave the apartment!"

"The Guv'nor never said that," Newkirk said. "What 'e said was that it's your job to keep me out of enemy 'ands. 'e never said anything about whether or not I could get a breath of fresh air."

"_Oui_? And how will you explain to your friends and the bartender as to why you are wearing a kilt?"

"Fair enough; I'll go to a different pub. Thank you, and good-ruddy-morning."

LeBeau cursed as he heard the front door slam. Hurriedly shutting down the stove and throwing his apron aside, he grabbed his red scarf and headed out the door.

"The Guv'nor didn't say that you 'ad to be me shadow, either," Newkirk said, knowing that LeBeau was following without even turning around.

"Must you be so stubborn?" LeBeau hissed. "I do not mind that you worry for me and the others. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I am quite touched. But you are starting to act as though you are the only one who worries or even has the right to worry! You think I have no reason to worry?"

Newkirk stopped, sighing as he looked Heavenward.

"I am worried for you, too," LeBeau went on, not as harshly now that Newkirk had stopped walking off. "It is not easy for me to stand by and watch as people are out to ruin your name and frame you for crimes you did not commit. You do not deserve to have that happen to you—your own best friend Roger even doubted you. I even have to wonder if he is questioning your involvement in the murder!"

Newkirk bit his lip. There was his old life coming back, forcing him to decide as to which path he had to choose. Yes, Roger did doubt him, but only because they were all thieves once, he rationalized.

"Pierre, you do not have any idea as to how much I wanted to apprehend that imposter yesterday," LeBeau went on. "If André had not stopped me, it is likely I would have confronted him."

"You're crackers, you are…" Newkirk said. "That goon could've killed you!"

"So I have been told," LeBeau said. "But I was willing to confront that ugly impostor if it meant clearing your name."

"I reckon you would be willing to take on…" Newkirk trailed off, a light bulb going off over his head as the stealth insult sunk in. "Oi!"

He turned to see LeBeau smirking at him, and Newkirk felt his own anger beginning to dissipate again.

"The point is, Pierre, I worry about what is happening to you because of this fiasco," he said.

"All right, I reckon you made a few valid points," Newkirk said. "Though you aren't getting away with that 'ugly' crack, I promise you. For now, though, I don't suppose you'd want to join me for breakfast in the pub?"

LeBeau scoffed, but went along with the idea as hostilities apparently ended between the two corporals. They managed to get through breakfast without snarling at each other, even managing a causal stroll around the East End. No one seemed to look twice at Newkirk and his kilt—at least, not until they got back to the apartment building. Newkirk's landlady was regarding him with a very baffled expression.

"Oh, Cor, she probably 'ad complaints about the noise from last evening. Don't look at me like that, Louis; it's as much your fault as it is mine!"

He walked over to her, but to his astonishment, her first inquiry was to his kilt.

"How are you wearing that?" she asked. "Where did you get that—and so quickly?"

Newkirk looked just as confused as she did. He turned to LeBeau, who shrugged helplessly in response.

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you…"

"But I just saw you leave the building five minutes ago—wearing a completely different set of clothes!" she said.

"Are you certain?" LeBeau asked, as Newkirk just stared at her with wide eyes.

"I should think I would know the different between trousers and kilts!" she responded, in a huff. Forgetting completely to chew them out for the noise, she stalked off.

The corporals exchanged glances once more before tearing upstairs to Newkirk's apartment.

"Look carefully for the microphones," Newkirk ordered, as he leaped over the torn carpet to inspect the light fixtures and anywhere else a bug might be placed. "And if you see any wiring you're not sure of, let me—" He flinched as he heard LeBeau trip over the carpet. "—know."

LeBeau got up, cursing, but then gasped.

"You found the bug?" the Englishman gasped.

"_Non_," the Frenchman replied, pulling money, a gold chain, and an emerald brooch from under the carpet. "I recognize this chain; it is the same one your double was carrying that night we first saw him—when he robbed that lady in the alleyway! And this must be the brooch that André saw him take!"

"'e's planted the loot 'ere!" Newkirk snarled, taking a closer look at the brooch.

"_Oui_, and I think it is going to get much worse," LeBeau said. "This must mean that they are ready to turn your name in to the police, as _Colonel_ Hogan said they would. They are keeping this here as false evidence so that you will be arrested for the thefts and the murder!"

Newkirk's shoulders slumped. They were taking this to the next level so soon?

"What am I to do?" he wondered aloud.

_Leave it to me, mon pote_, LeBeau thought, a dangerous idea forming in his head.

The Frenchman would take this into his own hands now.


	13. Twist Your Fate on a Dime

Newkirk spent a long time staring at the emerald brooch in his hand, pondering his fate. He knew that a storm was coming, and coming quickly; it was all a matter of whether or not Carter and the others could get the pictures and convince the police that this impostor really existed.

He looked to the Frenchman, who was staring at the gold chain in his hand, and then back to Miss Sandiego's brooch.

_Louis is right, of course_, he thought. _She's going to claim I stole this from her, after all of that rot about saying she's in on this in order to clear me name_.

Of course, he wasn't about to admit this out loud. Judging by the look on LeBeau's face, he was deep in thought, coming up with the perfect "I told you so" speech. Newkirk decided that he did not need to hear it.

Ironically, though, a speech was the furthest thing from LeBeau's mind. He, too, surmised that the presence of the brooch here meant that Sandiego was going to report the theft and blame it on Newkirk. And LeBeau could not allow that to happen—even if Newkirk insisted on worrying over him, and even if it meant returning to Epping.

His brow began to furrow as he tied the ends of his plan together. The reporter still had not reason to believe that she was under suspicion; LeBeau could easily go over to her house on the pretext of asking how the interview with Newkirk went—perhaps even asking about making an appointment for himself to be interviewed. Doing so would also give him an opportunity to get as near to the crime scene and see if he could find anything there. But, more importantly, he could delay Sandiego's trip to the police long enough for Hogan to get there first.

There was only one flaw with his plan; Hogan had put him in charge of making sure that nothing happened to Newkirk. That was going to be impossible if he was going back to Epping.

_There must be a way_… he thought, furiously. _If I can just someone to watch over Pierre, I might be able to go_…

His thoughts trailed off as there was a knock on the door. Newkirk paled, assuming it to be the police, and he took off for his room, locking himself in. LeBeau hastily hid the gold chain in his pocket and opened the door, and was relieved to see Mavis standing there.

"'allo, Louis," she said, blinking. "Cor, you look so terrible and sweaty; are you ill?"

"_Non_," LeBeau said, a light bulb going off in his head as he found a way to execute his plan. "I am fine, I assure you."

"That's good, at any rate," she said. She looked around the apartment. "Is Peter 'ere?"

"_Oui_, but he is… That is, to say… He cannot see you right now…"

"'ey, Mavis," Newkirk said, sticking his head out over the threshold of his room so that she would see his Scotsman's disguise. "Uh, Louis is right; can you come by later?"

"I reckon I can," she said. "But I just wondered if I could borrow five pounds."

"Oh, not at all," Newkirk said. "Uh, Louis, can you get 'er five pounds from me jacket pocket?"

LeBeau obliged them, but Mavis was still puzzled as she took the money.

"Are you two up to something?" she asked.

"Up to something? _Us_?" Newkirk bluffed. "Come off it, Mavis; what could we possibly be up to?"

"I 'eard that there was a lot of shouting 'ere last night, and now you two are in separate rooms like children sulking after a fight…"

"Oh, is that all?" her brother asked, relieved. "Well, you know 'ow stubborn Louis can be; if we don't butt 'eads at least once a day, then something is very wrong."

LeBeau gave a wan smile in agreement, though he managed to send a glare in Newkirk's direction.

"Well, I was just curious…" Mavis began, but then paused part of her brother's kilt became visible over the threshold of the room. "_Peter_?"

Newkirk looked down and immediately retreated back into his room.

"Peter, what's going on?" Mavis insisted at the closed door.

"Oh, well, you know how humble Pierre is," LeBeau said. "We were tossing around ideas for a little… costume party."

"Oh. Then where's your costume, Louis?"

"_My_ costume? Well… André is going around looking for it."

"Yeah, it ain't easy to find clothes 'is size, you know," Newkirk quipped from behind the closed door.

"_Tais-toi!_"

Mavis was still confused, but decided that this all made some sort of bizarre sense. Exactly how it made sense was still a mystery, but she was confident that the two knew what they were talking about.

"Well, if you're sure nothing's wrong, I guess I'll see you later," she said, heading for the door.

"Ah, _oui_," LeBeau said, walking her there. Before she left, he lowered his voice. "If you could do me a favor, I would appreciate it if you could call this number…" He handed her the number of the hotel room where Hogan was staying. "André should be there by this time. Could you ask _Colonel_ Hogan if André could come back to the apartment; I need to speak to him as soon as possible."

Mavis nodded.

"_Merci_. And please hurry; they will be leaving soon."

"Right; I'll call from the first callbox I come to," she promised. "See you later." She called out to her brother before leaving. Bye, Peter!"

LeBeau closed the door after her and sighed with relief. Newkirk hobbled back into the main room, the color not quite back in his face yet.

"Oh, _blimey_," he gasped, sitting down on the couch as he wiped the sweat from her brow. "I never thought I'd ever 'ave to 'ide from me own sister like that."

"Be glad that she is not like my mother," said LeBeau. "She knows when you are hiding the truth from her, and she will not leave you until you give her the full truth." He shook his head. "I should start preparing lunch."

"Don't bother cooking for me, little mate; I've just about lost me appetite after that."

LeBeau gave a wan nod, but his worries were for a different reason; he was hoping that he wasn't going to end up making a decision that he would come to regret as far as returning to Epping was concerned.

* * *

Newkirk, concerned for his own fate at the moment, did not seem to sense that LeBeau had something planned. This wasn't like him; usually, when LeBeau was up to something, he was able to figure it out before it actually happened, and the reverse usually held true. As it was, LeBeau's plan to go to Epping was still secret, as he had hoped.

There was another knock on the door shortly after LeBeau had finished preparing bouillabaisse (just the smell of it had been enough to banish what bit of appetite Newkirk had managed to hold onto). The Englishman once again dove for the cover of his room, but LeBeau knew who it was.

"Come in, André," he said, ushering the sergeant inside. "Tell me, how did the photographs turn out?"

"Oh, they turned out great!" he said. "Kinch and the colonel are going to take them to the police; they're probably there now. Mavis called just before we were going to leave; Colonel Hogan said to go ahead and go back. Why'd you have her call? What happened?"

"Pierre and I went out for breakfast. When we came back, we found this hidden under the carpet," the Frenchman announced, holding out the money and the gold chain. "And Pierre has that same emerald brooch you saw yesterday—he has been staring at it all morning. Also, the landlady said that she saw someone who looked just like Pierre leaving the building about five minutes before we returned."

Carter's eyes widened.

"Boy, this is getting worse and worse—they're upping the ante every couple hours!"

"I know," LeBeau said. "That is why I have to stop them."

"Well, sure, we've got to stop them! That's what we're trying to do! Colonel Hogan and Kinch are on it right now—"

"No, André," LeBeau said, shaking his head. "I cannot sit idly by and do nothing as Pierre gets in worse and worse trouble. What will be their next move? Will they kidnap him and have people see him so that he will be arrested? If they convince the police first that he is guilty before _Colonel_ Hogan can convince them otherwise…"

"Well, it's not that I don't see your point, but… what are you going to do?"

"I have thought about it," the Frenchman said, lowering his voice further. "It is said that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime."

"You're going back to Epping?" Carter whispered, his eyes going even wider as LeBeau gave a nod. "Louis, you can't! Colonel Hogan said—"

"_Colonel_ Hogan said that I had to ensure that Pierre doesn't fall into enemy hands. That is why I had you come back here. So I will go have a word with Miss Sandiego—just to pretend to be interested in an interview, long enough for her to be delayed in reporting to the police about Pierre allegedly stealing her brooch."

"Oh, Louis, I don't like this. I don't like this at _all_."

Carter's mind raced furiously, considering pulling rank on the corporal. But, on the other hand, there was every chance in the world that Hogan and Kinch were in a race against their foes to convince the police. Even if they got there in time, photos in hand, their story was less likely to be believed than the idea of Newkirk being guilty.

"Louis, think about it—is it worth it?"

"Look, I am not going to confront her with my suspicions—that is something I know _Colonel_ Hogan would be against. I just want to stall her to give him and Kinch time. That is all I will do—I promise!"

"Well… I suppose if that's all you're going to do, it'll be okay," Carter said, still uncomfortable with the idea. "Maybe you should check it with Peter before you go."

"Are you crazy? He would throttle me for even suggesting it!"

"Yeah, he would," the sergeant admitted. "But how do I explain your disappearance?"

"Just tell him that I went out to get some ingredients that I needed to complete the bouillabaisse. He hates it, so he will not taste it to verify."

"Well, I suppose that's true, but something could still go wrong," the sergeant said.

"_D'accord_," LeBeau said, looking at his watch. "Give me… three hours. If you do not hear from me by then, you can go ahead and tell Pierre what I did."

"At which point, he'll kill you if you aren't dead already," Carter warned.

"I know, I know…" LeBeau said, rolling his eyes. "That gives me the incentive to get back in touch with you somehow. _Au revoir_."

He was out the door before Carter could protest. The sergeant sighed, now crossing to Newkirk's room door and convincing him that he everything was alright.

LeBeau, on the other hand, used the leftover money that Newkirk had given him the previous day to get him to Epping. To his frustration, he wasn't able to get anywhere near the crime scene. Realizing that he probably should not have expected to, he headed off towards Miss Sandiego's house.

He rang the doorbell and waited; he had already resolved that he would not try to force his way in this time, in case the impostor was raiding it for more loot to plant on Newkirk. He was still tempted to confront the impostor as he had originally wished, but he knew that Hogan would have several things to say against that.

To his surprise, Miss Sandiego opened the door. She seemed rather calm for someone who had had her house rifled through the previous day and lost an emerald brooch.

"Good afternoon, Señor…"

"LeBeau—Louis LeBeau. I am a friend of Corporal Newkirk's; he and I were in Stalag 13 together for five years. He told me all about the interview yesterday, and I decided that it might be fun to be interviewed, as well. I will have to have _Colonel_ Hogan present, as well, but I would like to discuss a possible date and time for it."

"Ah, yes, do come in!" she said, standing aside to allow him to enter into her hall. She guided him to her drawing room. "Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger, perhaps?"

"Coffee will be fine," LeBeau said, deciding that taking time to prepare the drink would help him in his plan. He knew, of course, that there was a risk of the coffee being drugged, so he was already preparing a way of disposing of the coffee so that he wouldn't have to drink it.

"Feel free to have a look around here and in the den," she said. "I've furnished most of it myself!"

She left, presumably to get the coffee, and LeBeau walked around the drawing room. Nothing looked disturbed—it was impossible to tell that the Springheel Jack had been here only a day ago.

He shook his head slightly, crossing to the den. His eyes scanned this room; he had only seen a fleeting glimpse of it the previous day while Carter had done the investigating. But something stood out in the den—a tall, rectangular box with several slits all over it. It looked very familiar.

LeBeau stared at it, frowning. That wasn't supposed to be there, he knew. And Carter, despite being somewhat oblivious at times, could not have missed this.

The Frenchman's eyes suddenly widened as he remembered where he saw the box before—in the storage room of the magic theatre; it was the sword impalement box! He folded his arms, wishing he had said something sooner. This proved, once and for all, that Sandiego was involved with the goings-on at the theatre.

_You were a good actress, Mademoiselle. But your game will soon come to an end_.

His curiosity was getting the better of him, however. After looking to the entrance of the den to make sure that she wasn't coming back, LeBeau moved to open the cabinet.

"'ello, little mate," a voice sneered from within the cabinet.

The Frenchman's eyes widened again—this time, in horror. The impostor Newkirk lunged at him, slamming him against the wall and pulling tightly on the two ends of his scarf to choke him.

"You should not have done that, Corporal LeBeau," another voice said.

LeBeau turned his head as much as he could, his blurring vision still able to make out Gretel standing in the threshold of the den beside Miss Sandiego.

"You should have listened to Corporal Newkirk," Gretel said, coldly.

The Springheel Jack chuckled, now grasping LeBeau's throat tightly, his last taunting rhyme echoing in the Frenchman's ears just before the darkness consumed him.

"A fitting end to just your sort—as they say in your language, _C'est l'mort_."


	14. Gone in One Sleight of Hand

Carter was getting more and more nervous as time ticked by without any word from LeBeau. While Newkirk himself had no phone, Carter made frequent trips to the landlady, asking if the Frenchman had called, but each time, she shook her head, growing more and more annoyed with the American.

It didn't take Newkirk long to realize that something was very wrong; once he stopped worrying for himself, he began to get suspicious after the first half-hour had passed. He had shown LeBeau where the closest markets were before on his numerous visits to London. And it did not escape him how Carter kept finding the most pathetic excuses to go downstairs every fifteen minutes, tripping over the carpet each time he reentered the apartment.

One hour had gone by, and then two. Newkirk was not waiting for answers any longer.

"What's going on?" he asked, coldly, as Carter returned from downstairs yet again.

"I was… reminding the landlady of the carpet," Carter lied, as he tripped again. "You know, I figured that if I remind her enough times—"

"Andrew, where is Louis?" Newkirk demanded, his voice rising. "Where is 'e? You were supposed to be with Kinch and the Guv'nor; I don't know why, but for some reason, Louis got you to come 'ere to cover for 'im while 'e went off someplace!"

"Well, I told you; he wanted to find some ingredients to fix up that bouillabaisse. Maybe he just didn't find what he was looking for here; you know how particular he is about the kind of ingredients he uses—"

"Will you stop it, Andrew? I'm not about to fall for it! It's just like Louis to try something like this! For the last ruddy time, where is he?"

"Please, Peter! Louis will throttle me if I tell you!"

"And _I'll_ throttle you if you don't!"

Carter flinched; he was in a no-win situation, but he figured he may as well act in the interest of LeBeau's safety.

"All right, I'll tell you," he sighed, looking at the clock. With only one hour left, maybe LeBeau wouldn't even notice; he could easily play dumb and pretend that he had no idea that it was only two hours that had passed by. "Louis was worried that the lady reporter was going to go to the police and say that you stole her brooch. He said that if she got there before Kinch and the colonel did, the police would never believe them. And even if she got their after them, her story would hold more weight."

"That doesn't tell me where 'e is! Andrew, I swear, if you don't—"

"He's in Epping!" Carter blurted out. "I told him it was a bad idea, but he wouldn't—"

"…_What_?"

"Louis thought that if he went over to that reporter's house to discuss a possible plan for an interview, it'd stall her enough for Kinch and the colonel to get the police to believe that someone is framing you," Carter explained. "He said that if I didn't hear from him after three hours, to finally tell you. I know it's only been two hours, but I guess there's…" He trailed off as Newkirk's face turned red and he headed out the door. "Oh, boy…"

"Andrew, you'd better come with me."

"I should? But what if Louis tries to call?"

"You'd better come with me because I'll need someone to stop me from punching 'im!"

Carter stood there for a moment, baffled, but followed Newkirk out the apartment door, trying to ignore the voice in his head whispering that something was terribly wrong.

* * *

Hogan and Kinch, in the meantime, were having their own struggles. As the trio had predicted, the police were finding the notion of the impostor hard to swallow, even when looking at the pictures that Carter had taken.

"I suppose it is possible that there is a difference between these pictures," a constable said, comparing one of Carter's pictures of the impostor to that of a picture of the real Newkirk. "But it does leave one question unanswered, doesn't it? You claim that this man, Peter Newkirk, whom you claim is being framed as the Springheel Jack, served under you during the war as a corporal in the Royal Air Force?"

"The records of Luft Stalag 13 will confirm that Corporal Newkirk did serve under me," Hogan said, knowing where the constable was going.

"Colonel Hogan, I understand that you see the need to defend the reputation of your men—this one included," the constable said, pulling out a file. "However, Peter Newkirk is no stranger to the London police; he has a record of thefts—"

"A record of _petty_ thefts, which, if you'll notice, came to an end around 1937, I believe—just less than three years before he joined the Royal Air Force," Hogan said, coolly. "He never had another arrest after that, and never once in any of those thefts did he resort to violence, let alone murder."

The constable stared at him, but glanced at the file and saw that the colonel was correct.

"A good officer knows his men," Hogan explained, pleased to see him somewhat flummoxed.

"Not just officers," Kinch added. "I can vouch for Newkirk's character, and I'm not the only one. He told us more than once about how he was determined to make an honest living for himself. He has a job in a local magic theater, and he has a very close friend in Paris—another man who was in Luft Stalag 13 with us and happens to be in town now—who will willingly send him money if he even detects the slightest hint that he needs it."

"Even if what you say is true, Gentlemen, it still begs one to ask why on earth someone would go through the trouble of impersonating a corporal and committing violent crimes just to frame him," the constable said.

"We're curious about that, as well," Hogan said. "We're hoping to get some answers once the impostor is caught."

"Rest assured, Gentlemen, we will catch the murderer," the constable assured him. "And I thank you for bringing Peter Newkirk to our attention once again."

"Just one thing," Hogan said, handing him a telegram. "You'll find that this is a wire by General Aloysius Barton of the U.S. Army Air Corp ordering you not to arrest Corporal Newkirk for reasons of military intelligence."

"Military intelligence?" the constable asked, pointing to the picture of the real Newkirk. "_Him_?"

"Perhaps you heard last night about the escape from the Heidelberg prison?" Hogan asked. "That war criminal who escaped, Wolfgang Hochstetter, frequented Luft Stalag 13; General Barton needs information from all former prisoners of Stalag 13 in regards his description and mannerisms that might lead to his recapture—and that includes Corporal Newkirk."

"Well, Colonel, I understand this order," the constable said, baffled. "But as he is an American general, I am afraid that your General Barton's order does not hold as much weight now that the war is over—"

"And here," Hogan said, handing him another telegram. "I have an order from Colonel Wembley of the British Army, instructing that General Barton's order be obeyed. You may call the colonel to confirm it, if you'd wish."

The constable stared at the second telegram for a long time.

"Colonel Hogan," he said, at last. "I have a sneaking suspicion that you caused the Germans much trouble during your time in Luft Stalag 13."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he replied, wryly.

The constable sighed, deciding not to answer the question and realizing that there was no alternative for him but to throw in the towel.

"Very well, Colonel Hogan," he said. "I do not understand why there seems to be so much of a fuss over this corporal, but far be it from me to stand in the way of these officers. I will see to it that word of these orders will be passed along to the rest of the London police, and that they will be obeyed to the letter. Good day, Colonel." He turned to Kinch and gave a nod. "Sergeant."

Hogan and Kinch thanked him and turned to go as the phone on the constable's desk began to ring.

"And the silver tongue wins again," Hogan mused, but paused as he heard the constable speak over the line.

"More sightings of the Springheel Jack?" he was saying. "Where?" He began to write down the information. "Some trouble at Epping… sounds of a violent struggle… Springheel Jack seen heading towards Greater London… I see. Do you have a description of him? Just Brown hair, green eyes, RAF uniform… Yes, that's the same description we've been getting. What? He was also wearing a red wool scarf?"

"Red wool scarf?" Kinch repeated, quietly. "You don't think…?"

The triumphant look in Hogan's eyes had now vanished. The colonel wanted to believe that it was a coincidence, but his sixth sense was telling him otherwise.

* * *

Carter was not having a good time. During the bus ride to Epping, he had to sit and listen to Newkirk rant about the different ways he was going to make LeBeau pay for doing something so incredibly stupid and making him worry even more, despite having given him a good talking to the previous day.

"I suppose it'd be useless to point out that what he did was because he wanted to help you out?" the American asked at last.

Newkirk gave him a very withering look.

"…Yeah, I thought as much…" Carter said, as they got off of their bus.

"Exactly where is this lady's place, anyway?" Newkirk asked. "You'd better be leading me in the right direction."

"Of course I am! It's right over…" he trailed off, staring the door, which was ajar. "Well, that's it. I wonder why the door's open…"

"Louis must be in there, of course," Newkirk snarled, ringing the doorbell.

"You'll have to come up with some story to explain why you came for him."

"I'll just say I didn't think 'e 'ad enough money to make it back to Stepney on 'is own," Newkirk countered. He frowned as no one came to the door. "Blimey, what…?"

The Englishman now trailed off as a feeling of unease came over him.

"Louis?" he called, stepping into the house. "Louis, where are you?"

"Hello?" Carter called, following him. "Anyone home? Huh. I guess they must've gone out somewhere—maybe for lunch or something."

"Louis would never eat out in England," Newkirk stated, flatly. He peered into the drawing room, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

It was Carter who looked into the den and gasped.

"What is it?" Newkirk asked, running over. He froze upon seeing the telltale signs of a struggle—overturned furniture, small objects out of place, papers all over the floor, and scuff makes all over the carpet.

"She couldn't get the jump on Louis like that, could she?" Carter wondered aloud. "I mean, Louis knows what he's doing; he wouldn't walk into a trap like that… would he?"

"I don't know," Newkirk said. "But it ain't looking good. Louis must've found something that she didn't care to 'ave found."

"Like that?" Carter said, flinching as he noticed the sword impalement box. Not wanting to look at it, he determinedly stared at the wall as he pointed to it.

Newkirk regarded the box with some amazement.

"This belongs to Pandora!" he said. "But was it stolen? Or is 'e really in on this?"

He frowned, staring at the box as he walked around it. It was the usual box that Pandora used, but Newkirk took note that someone had painstakingly put swords through each individual slit.

"If Pandora was 'ere, 'e must've been practicing," he observed, gingerly placing his hand on the hilt of one of the swords sticking out of the box. "Though it still doesn't answer the question of what 'appened to…"

Newkirk trailed off, yet again. He had casually pulled the sword out slightly, freezing upon seeing blood on the blade. Carter turned to see what had caused Newkirk to stop talking, and he paled at the sight.

"Just a touch of realism, right?" he asked, grasping at straws.

Newkirk looked at the box again and at the swords sticking out of it, and the horrible realization sunk in.

"Andrew," he said, as calmly as he could. "'elp me get the swords out. _Now_."

Newkirk and Carter carefully removed each sword from the box as quickly as they dared, knowing that they wouldn't be able to get the box open otherwise. Each sword had blood on it as they removed it.

Carter found himself unable to look as Newkirk yanked the door of the cabinet open. The Englishman yet out a horrified cry as a motionless body fell into his arms, covered with blood.

"Louis…" Newkirk whispered, his voice choking as he sunk to the floor, cradling the Frenchman's still form.

"_No_!" Carter gasped. He knew that he should've expected it from the moment they found the blood on the first sword, but he had been hoping and praying that, by some miracle, it wasn't so.

Newkirk checked for a pulse, but wasn't finding one. He did, however, find the marks on the Frenchman's neck from where he had been choked; his scarf was gone, taken by his attacker. A mix of emotions was building up inside of Newkirk.

"Why did you do it, Louis?" he hissed, seizing him by the lapels. "Why'd you 'ave to go when you knew it was dangerous? You can't die on me now—not after we survived that ruddy war together…"

He trailed off, blinking back the rapidly-forming tears in his eyes as he recalled some of LeBeau's earlier words to him.

"_One of these days, Pierre, you will be begging me for my bouillabaisse_."

_Not like this_, Newkirk thought, miserably, as he continued to helplessly cradle his motionless friend. _It was never meant to be like this. I wasn't supposed to let this happen to you. I should've been there for you. You're me little mate, and now… Oh, Louis_…

Carter gripped Newkirk's shoulder as the Englishman shut his eyes and bowed his head.

"You know he would've done anything for you—even if he knew this was going to happen, he would've done it," the American said, softly, drying his own tears. "Now that he's… Well, I guess you can know now that he wrote you into his will."

"'e did what?" Newkirk asked, his heart twisting further.

"He told me yesterday that he knew you'd never take the money from him, so he made you the main beneficiary of his will," Carter confessed. He figured that Newkirk was going to find out soon, anyway—he may as well find out from him.

Newkirk felt even worse now. It was true that his own pride had stood in the way, but he hadn't even realized that LeBeau would go that far to help him.

"Louis…" he whispered, hugging his friend close to him. He shut his eyes, trying to seal out everything. He felt as though the entire world had come crashing down on top of him. So lost was he that it took him a long time to notice the faint, slow pulsing as he hugged LeBeau's torso against his own.

Newkirk's eyes snapped open. At first, he had assumed it was his own heartbeat, but it suddenly became clear that the pulse was too slow to be his own. He placed two fingers on LeBeau's neck, but, once again, felt nothing.

"What is it?" Carter asked, startled.

"I think," Newkirk said, unbuttoning the Frenchman's shirt so that he could press his ear to his chest. "I think 'e ain't dead!"

"_Huh_?" Carter asked, feeling for a pulse on LeBeau's wrist. "But I can't feel anything…"

"That's because 'is pulse is weak—slow, too…" the Englishman said, just barely hearing the sound he had wanted so desperately to hear.

Carter's eyes widened, and he placed the back of his hand in front of the Frenchman's nose and mouth, but felt nothing. He grabbed a compact mirror from a nearby table and tried placing that in front of LeBeau's face. He waited for a moment, and gasped as the tiniest trace of condensation appeared on the mirror.

"He _is_ alive!" he exclaimed. "But… why couldn't we tell? Do you think…?" The sergeant trailed off, an idea coming to him. He crossed to the nearest wastebasket, and pulled out a small, dark bottle which was empty. "Look at this! Louis was drugged! And here're some empty bottles of that fake blood stuff, too!"

Newkirk looked up, anger now filling his eyes.

"They did all this just to make us think 'e was dead!" he said. "And I know what's going to 'appen now—they're going to say that _I_ killed 'im!"

"What do we do?"

Newkirk looked at his unconscious friend and sighed.

"You look after 'im—try to revive 'im, but don't let 'im exert 'imself. I want 'im to fully recover from this. I'm going to find that double of mine and end this. And then I'll find that reporter and end it again."

"Do you even know where to find them?" Carter asked, as he took LeBeau from Newkirk.

"I do now, thanks to this," said Newkirk, pointing to the impalement box. "They'll be at the theatre now."

"Yeah, good thinking; they probably took the robotic equipment that was upstairs with them."

"Look into that once Louis recovers," Newkirk said. "I'm going to find them."

"Newkirk!" Carter called, as the Englishman headed for the door. "Be careful!"

The corporal paused before leaving.

"Of course I will," he said, quietly, as he turned to face Carter. "I've got a lot to tell Louis after 'e wakes up." _An 'I'm sorry' will be just the tip of the iceberg._

With that, he headed out the door.


	15. The Genuine Kind

Carter kept a tender vigil by LeBeau's side; he knew that for Newkirk to leave him like this, his thirst for revenge was overpowering. All Carter could do was pray that LeBeau woke up soon, and that Newkirk wouldn't end up getting into trouble as he confronted his doppelganger.

The drug had meant to keep LeBeau unconscious for several hours, but Gretel, who had administered the drug to the Frenchman, had been unaware that Sandiego had watered it down before giving her the bottle. The Spanish lady had her own gambit planned—one that would require LeBeau to awaken much sooner than Gretel had intended.

And, thusly, only half an hour had passed since Newkirk's departure from the house before the older corporal suddenly groaned, beginning to stir.

"Louis?" Carter asked, relief washing over him.

"Oh… _Le__ théâtre_," he mumbled.

"The theatre?" Carter repeated. "Yeah, Newkirk figured it out and left some time ago. He didn't even have enough time to be upset about you and your will…" He trailed off, his eyes widening as he realized that he had let slip what LeBeau had wanted to keep secret!

Fortunately for him, LeBeau was still coming out of it, and didn't catch a word of what Carter had said.

"_Quoi_?" he asked, opening his eyes. "André! André, we must find Pierre! He and his sister are in great danger!"

He tried to sit up, but Carter forced him back down.

"Take it easy," he instructed. "You were drugged. And boy, we were scared!"

"But you are the only one here," LeBeau said, looking around. "Where is Pierre? Please tell me he isn't far!"

"He was here until some time ago. Something happened to you while you were here; we found you unconscious and in that sword impalement box. We thought you were dead, and Peter… He was mad, at first, but then he just sat there, devastated. You know, he really does think of you as his best friend. He was so out of it, he barely reacted when I told him about…" Carter trailed off. He knew that LeBeau would eventually learn about how he had let it slip about the will. He may as well know now, when he would be too tired from the drug to throttle the American. "He wasn't as upset as we thought he'd be when I told him about how you wrote him into your will."

LeBeau heard him this time, and his bleary eyes glared dangerously at the sergeant.

"You told him!" the Frenchman quietly fumed, still not able to shout yet. "After everything I told you—"

"I told you, we both thought you were dead!" Carter protested. "If you really had been dead, he would've found out eventually… I just thought I could deliver the news to him and bring him down easy."

LeBeau looked away, muttering. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. The most important thing was making sure that Newkirk wouldn't fall into the trap set for him.

"Where is Pierre now?"

"I told you—he headed for the theatre a half an hour ago."

"Oh, no…" LeBeau murmured, shutting his eyes.

"Why? What's wrong?"

The Frenchman kept his eyes shut, trying to recall the blur of details surrounding the minutes just before he had fallen unconscious. He remembered Newkirk's double trying to choke him, and taunting him in the process. LeBeau had let himself go limp in the hopes that he would stop, and his ploy had worked; the double dropped him as the women began to talk.

It had been lucky that Gretel did not know Spanish and Sandiego did not know German; they both discussed their plans in English, and LeBeau had listened in. Gretel had insisted that LeBeau should be killed to cripple the Unsung Heroes and allow her to get her revenge on Newkirk for discrediting her. Sandiego, on the other hand, had insisted that LeBeau would be more useful alive, as he could be used as leverage to get Newkirk—and, more importantly, Colonel Hogan—to bend to their demands.

Gretel had reluctantly agreed that LeBeau might be temporarily useful, but insisted that he be drugged to appear dead. Sandiego had concurred, but she had provided the diluted drug. As a result, LeBeau had hung onto consciousness long enough to hear Gretel gloat about how Newkirk would undoubtedly head to the theatre after seeing LeBeau in the impalement box. The German woman had further suggested having the doppelganger imitate Newkirk long enough to get Mavis to the vicinity of the theatre, as well, whereupon they could ensnare both siblings into a trap; having Mavis captured would allow for even more leverage. Unfortunately, it was then that the Frenchman had truly fallen unconscious.

LeBeau opened his eyes again, his head slowly becoming clearer as the effects of the diluted drug began to fade.

"They are going to lure Pierre and Mavis there and trap them both," he said. "I do not know what they plan to do after that, but I fear for the both of them."

Carter's eyes widened. He should have expected that they would have been waiting for Newkirk at the theatre.

"André, we must get there! Pierre will need help!" LeBeau exclaimed, as he managed to sit up. "I will be fine enough to go. We cannot afford to wait any longer!"

"Um… right," Carter said. "Listen, you sit tight here for a minute; I need to go upstairs and check something. You make sure you're okay before we head out."

LeBeau nodded as Carter headed upstairs to the master bedroom. The closet door was open, and the gurney and the robotics that had been inside it were gone. Their foes had abandoned this place; they likely would've returned once more to pick up LeBeau, which left the question of why LeBeau had awakened so soon. Neither the American nor the Frenchman knew the truth about how Sandiego had diluted the drug.

Still puzzled, Carter went back downstairs, surprised to see LeBeau shakily getting to his feet by holding onto the furniture.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, helping steady his friend. "I thought I told you to sit tight!"

"I will be fine, André," LeBeau promised. "It is Pierre who is in trouble."

Carter knew they had no choice, so he helped LeBeau out the door, hoping that they weren't too late already.

* * *

Newkirk had a lot of time to think on the bus trip back to Greater London. He realized that there wouldn't have been any way of stopping LeBeau from helping him; the Frenchman was just as stubborn as he was. Perhaps that was why they always ended up arguing with each other.

He sighed to himself, recalling what Carter had told him about LeBeau's will. That would have to come up in their discussion after this was all over. As Carter had mentioned earlier, Newkirk had been too devastated to be angry. Now, he was still preoccupied to be angry, but he honestly couldn't think he could be angry at LeBeau—not after nearly losing him like that…

His thoughts were immediately interrupted as he happened to glance out the window. His double was there, on the sidewalk beside the road; he was walking normally instead of his Springheel Jack stance, and he was wearing LeBeau's red scarf around his own neck. More importantly, though, Mavis was walking beside him. Newkirk recognized the smile on her face—it was a very forced smile. She knew she wasn't talking to her real brother, but had gone along with him because she was worried for her real one.

"OI!" Newkirk called to the bus driver, as the bus began to pull ahead of Mavis and the impostor. "Stop this bus! I need to get off!"

The bus driver looked at him, baffled; Newkirk had spoken with a Scottish accent when he had boarded the bus, but, in his panic, he had spoken in his normal Cockney accent.

"Look, let me off!" Newkirk said again. "I've already paid me fare; 'ere's extra, if that's what it'll take!"

The corporal shoved a few pound notes into the driver's hands, who decided that it wasn't worth forcing this weirdo to stay if he didn't want to. He let Newkirk off, who ducked into the shadow of a building.

He didn't have to wait long for them to pass by. Mavis was incredibly nervous, and the double seemed to sense it.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong?" Mavis asked. "Of course not! I was just wondering when you'd get around to inviting me along to the costume party that you and Louis were going on about. I've got to find a costume for meself, if that's the case."

"About that…" the doppelganger said, hiding a smirk. "I'm afraid Louis won't be able to stay in London after all; 'e found out that 'e needs to return to Paris immediately. It's a ruddy shame, but no one regrets it more than I."

Newkirk snapped. It was lucky that the double and Mavis were close enough; he lunged at his doppelganger, tackling him to the ground.

Mavis screamed as Newkirk came out of nowhere, still in his kilt as he dove at his double. The double cursed loudly as the real Newkirk began to wrestle with him.

"Why don't you tell 'er the truth?" the real Newkirk hissed. "You made it look as though Louis was dead just to drive me mad! 'eaven knows what else you were planning for 'im—and me sister, too!"

"Peter, look out!" Mavis screamed, as the double pulled out a knife to stab the corporal.

Newkirk pulled out his pencil sharpener and parried the blow.

"I made a vow that I was going to end this," Newkirk said, knocking the knife out of his double's hand. "You and those witches already 'urt me little mate." He struck the double in the jaw. "That's for 'im!" He struck him again, this time, in the stomach. "And that's for Andrew!" Again. "For Kinch!" Once more. "For the Guv'nor!"

Mavis ran over and kicked the double in the side.

"And that's for me brother, you ruddy—"

"Newkirk!" Hogan's voice called from down the street.

The siblings and the double looked to see Hogan, Kinch, and the constable heading towards them. The double cursed, trying to make a break for it, but Newkirk had firmly pinned him to the ground.

The constable stared at the two grappling look-alikes.

"Which one is the real one?" he asked, baffled.

"The one in the kilt," Hogan replied, seizing the double by the wrists. The doppelganger struggled, but he was no match for the colonel, and the constable soon had handcuffs over his wrist. The real Newkirk launched into a furious explanation of what had happened at Epping, though Hogan managed to get him to calm down long enough for the corporal to put together a plan involving going to the theatre to confront Gretel and Sandiego.

"They're waiting for you," the double sneered.

Newkirk swore at him, grabbing LeBeau's scarf from around the double's neck and wearing it himself.

"Then it looks like I'm going to 'ave to impersonate you for a change," he said, with a sneer. "And blimey, I'm ready to get out of this kilt."

The constable looked to Hogan helplessly.

"Don't tell me that Colonel Wembley will want me to go along with _this_, too!"

Hogan gave him a helpless shrug, but after finding a place to make the change, the switch was made, with the doppelganger now most annoyed at his new wardrobe.

"It's going to be a bit awkward, doing those 'igh-jumps in a kilt," Newkirk sneered at his double. "Who are you, really?"

The double averted his gaze, but decided to talk in the hopes that he would be let off with a lighter sentence.

"My real name is Arthur "High-Jump" Holmes—an entertainer, specializing in acrobatics and a bit of firebreathing. Several months ago, I was found by that German woman. She said I looked a lot like a British spy—a corporal who had been a prisoner of war. She offered me a large sum of money if I had the necessary plastic surgery to impersonate this corporal and frame him for a series of violent robberies when the time was right."

Hogan folded his arms.

"There's a traitor in General Barton's staff," he realized. "That's the only way word could've gotten out to Gretel."

"I don't know anything about that," Holmes insisted. "All I know is that I was willing to play my part for the money she promised. I did as she and that Spanish lady—Miss Sandiego—ordered; I robbed people while acting as the Springheel Jack. At Sandiego's request, I rifled through her house and stole that brooch to plant it in his flat." He indicated the emerald brooch still in Newkirk's hand. "And it was Gretel who insisted that the next victim of the Springheel Jack die so that the real Corporal Newkirk would be framed for the murder. When that still led nowhere, it was to the delight of the ladies that the Frenchman showed up at Sandiego's house; they then decided to make it appear as though he had vanished. Since the entire building had heard him shouting and fighting with Newkirk the previous night, it would have been too easy to frame him for the Frenchman's disappearance, and add it on as another murder charge."

Newkirk drew back for another punch, but Hogan stopped him.

"What was your link to the magic theatre?" the colonel asked. "Other than the dress uniform you wore the first robbery, there was no other link that we found."

"I'm telling you, it was Pandora's Impalement Box that Andrew and I found Louis in," Newkirk insisted. "Pandora is the one—"

"Pandora…" Holmes scoffed. "He was another one that was easy to frame, being so antisocial and all. You may have kept an eye on him through his entire performance, but you seemed to have missed taking a closer look at his blond assistant."

"Gretel was the assistant," Kinch said, shaking his head. "We should've guessed…"

"And she's waiting at the theatre?" Newkirk asked.

Holmes grunted in agreement.

"She and the Spanish lady—they wanted me to deliver your sister to them. Then they'd take her and the Frenchman and use them as bargaining chips for the rest of their plan."

"And that's where Newkirk came in," Hogan finished. "I guess we've got no other choice than to go along with the plan of having him impersonate the impersonator."

"We'll have to give him and Mavis a fifteen minute headstart to make sure that the women don't suspect anything," Kinch said.

"I'll leave you two chaps to that while I take this one back," the constable said. "I'll have backup sent to the theatre to help you."

Hogan nodded and looked to Mavis.

"The final decision is up to you, Miss Newkirk. If you don't mind taking a risk by going to the theatre with your brother, you could help us bring those two women to justice."

"I'll go with 'im," she said. "But there's one thing I don't understand about all this. Why would anyone want to frame Peter for robberies and murder—and especially Louis' murder?"

An awkward silence was all that answered her until the colonel cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that."

Mavis gave a nod, realizing that there was more to this—and to her brother's time at Stalag 13—than she had first thought.

She and Newkirk headed off towards the theatre.

"Poor Louis," she whispered. "It's a miracle that they didn't kill 'im once 'e found your double."

Newkirk sighed.

"I thought I'd lost 'im," he said, quietly.

"Louis really is a close mate of yours. Andrew, too, for that matter," she said.

"You 'ave no idea. Andrew told me that Louis wrote me into 'is will and left nearly everything to me—possessions, money, and even his restaurant."

"Blimey," she whispered. "Not even Roger would've done something like that."

Newkirk blinked, distracted by her words. The little voice in his head began to whisper into his ear once again.

_Face it, Peter—she's right. Maybe Roger was your best mate once, but things have changed. The war changed things, and it changed you. Louis nearly died out there for you, and even if he had, that will of his would've been his way of continuing to help you_…

"Peter?" Mavis whispered softly. "We're 'ere."

Newkirk gave a nod.

"I'll tell them you've gone to me dressing room, but I want you to go to Warwick's. Stay there until you 'ear from me or the Guv'nor and the others that it's safe."

Mavis nodded and did as her brother had instructed. Newkirk, in the meantime, coolly headed to Pandora's dressing room and knocked on the door.

It took every fiber of his being to remain emotionless when Gretel opened the door. She was in her costume as Pandora's assistant. Miss Sandiego was at the table, touching up her makeup.

"You're late. Where is she?" Gretel asked, using the same, cold tone she had used when she had first revealed herself as Hochstetter's spy back in Stalag 13.

"She's in the real Newkirk's dressing room," he lied, using his flair for vocal imitation to echo Holmes' real voice.

"Excellent," she said, moving to head out the door.

"Hold it," he said, trying to stall. "The real one will be here soon. Exactly what do you intend to do?"

"You will leave that to me," Gretel said. "But first, I want that girl in our custody. Come, Josefina."

Miss Sandiego rolled her eyes ever so slightly, but followed her, with Newkirk close behind.

"I heard from Major Hochstetter earlier, though one of our contacts," Gretel was saying. "He wishes to convey his thanks for the work you have been doing, Holmes."

"The major's wish is my command," Newkirk said. "I am only pleased that I can be of service to him—and to yourself, of course."

"That is very flattering…" Gretel began, but trailed off as they arrived at Newkirk's empty dressing room. "I thought you said she was in here."

"She must have stepped out for a moment," the Englishman bluffed. "I'll go find her—"

"Stay right where you are," Gretel hissed, aiming a gun at him. She merely smirked in response to his shock. "You forgot that your fake voices cannot fool _me_, Corporal Newkirk."

Newkirk cursed—both Gretel and his own stupidity; even before he had found out that she had been a spy, Gretel had revealed that she had seen through Newkirk's fake German accent in a heartbeat.

"Turn around," she ordered. "_Schnell_."

Newkirk obeyed, though he tried to watch her out of the corner of his eye.

"And what do you intend to do now?" he inquired.

"First, I will have Josefina find your sister. But you will not see her; you see, you will be dead by the time we find her."

"It apparently 'asn't occurred to you that Colonel 'ogan is on 'is way 'ere right now?"

"Of course it has occurred to me, but I will not give him the pleasure of finding you alive. If I cannot have you framed, then I'll simply have to have you buried. Now, walk—slowly; we are going to the stage. One false move, and you will be shot."

"If you're going to kill me, anyway, why not just get the ruddy business over with?" Newkirk asked, dryly, staying put.

"Because we know that your sister is here; we both saw the two of you arriving from the outer lobby," she said, simply. "So, if not for your own sake, I suggest complying for hers. Josefina, go find her."

The Spanish lady folded her arms, but walked off into the darkened corridor.

Newkirk cursed, but did as Gretel ordered.

"I really don't see why you can't shoot me," he said, wryly, as they arrived at the stage. "Wouldn't it make things easier?"

"You said it yourself; Colonel Hogan is coming. I'll save the bullets for him."

Newkirk paled, now trying to plan an escape for the sole purpose of getting her to use up her ammunition, but Gretel sensed it; she struck him across the back of the head with the gun handle. It wasn't enough to knock him out, but it did render him temporarily senseless, which was all the time that Gretel needed. She shoved him onto Sergeant Flood's Table of Death, whereupon she shackled his ankles and wrists into the manacles. Still not satisfied, she took two pairs of handcuffs and further shackled each of Newkirk's wrists to the table legs.

Newkirk tried to shake the stars from his vision and fight back, but by the time his head cleared, Gretel had grabbed LeBeau's scarf from around his neck and used it to gag him.

"You were always an escape artist, weren't you?" she taunted. "You escaped from Stalag 13 to see me, you escaped from a transfer, and you somehow escaped from Major Hochstetter after he had sealed off the entire camp. My new employers do not want such an escape artist alive, and after what you put me through, neither do I."

She lit a small fire in a metal dish and placed it under the rope that held the top board of spikes that was suspended directly above the corporal. Newkirk let out several muffled curses.

"The extra handcuffs will ensure that you will not be able to use any trickery to escape as your friend Flood does," she said. "I figured that Colonel Hogan gave you a headstart of fifteen minutes; if that is the case, then there are five minutes left. By that time, the rope will have burned through."

She smirked at him, and the rage in his eyes.

"You were stupid to think that I would let you and your fellow saboteurs have the last laugh," she said.

She walked away, making sure to turn off the stage lights. The only light in the darkened room was that of the fire eating away at the rope, counting down the minutes until the fall of the spikes—and Death's scythe.

* * *

Nobody, save for Sandiego, knew that LeBeau and Carter would arrive at the theatre. Having come from a different direction and method, they had arrived without seeing the altercation between Newkirk and Holmes and, subsequently, had arrived at the theatre shortly before Newkirk and Mavis had even gotten there.

"How could we have beaten Newkirk here?" Carter asked. "I hope we're not too late. Do you think those girls would be able to haul him off somewhere?"

"I would not put anything past them," LeBeau said, having recovered enough to stand and walk on his own.

They checked Newkirk's dressing room, finding nothing, and searched the nearby area for several minutes. It was during this time that Newkirk had been leading Gretel and Sandiego here; Carter was the first to hear the approaching footsteps, and he frantically pulled LeBeau along, under the mistaken impression that the Newkirk with the women was the doppelganger. They were well out of earshot by the time that Gretel revealed that she had known it was the real Newkirk with them.

"We need to find some way of finding the real Pierre before they do," LeBeau whispered, as he and Carter slipped down the darkened corridor, unaware that Sandiego was also heading that way.

"Well, you know Peter—he can get in and out of any door," Carter whispered back. "He's probably hiding in one of these rooms until he can make his move."

"Then we had better check each one," LeBeau said. "You check the ones on the left, and I will check the ones on the right."

"Sounds like a plan, but be careful."

It was here they parted ways, picking locks and looking inside the rooms. Sandiego arrived on the scene to see LeBeau duck into one of the rooms, and she smiled; it had been exactly as she planned.

She slipped into the room behind him and suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth.

"If you are looking for your friend, I recommend you going to the stage, Señor LeBeau," she whispered. "Gretel has a bad habit of indiscriminately killing her foes without seeing the potential they have alive. It's a habit that I would like to help end, and seeing as though your friend's life is at stake, I am sure you would, as well. You see, that was the real Señor Newkirk with us, and Gretel figured it out."

LeBeau yelped as she threw him across the room; he turned on the spot, but she had vanished. He ran out to the hall, but there wasn't a trace of her.

"André!" he whispered as loudly as he dared. "André, where are you?"

He received no answer, but knew that there was no time. He did not like the idea of trusting Sandiego, but he had to admit to himself that she had been the one to lobby in support of keeping _him_ alive when Gretel had been ready to kill him on the spot.

For some reason, she wanted the Unsung Heroes alive. But now wasn't the time to question why; it was to ensure that it stayed that way.

Praying that Carter would be safe, LeBeau slipped down the corridor, heading towards the stage. His heart hammered in his chest as he arrived, finding it seemingly deserted; there was no light, save for a small fire, which was odd in and of itself.

Slowly and carefully, he walked towards the fire, noticing that it seemed to be burning through a rope. But where were Newkirk and Gretel, as Sandiego had warned him?

Unease filled him, and he moved to retreat, but something stopped him from going. Again, he walked towards the fire, this time from a different angle.

Meanwhile, on the table, Newkirk had long since shut his eyes in despair, saying his last prayers and hoping that Mavis and the others would somehow survive this, even if he didn't.

Even as Newkirk shut his eyes, the light from the fire was still able to fall on his eyelids, but, suddenly, the light was blocked. The Englishman opened his eyes to see the silhouette of someone directly in his line of vision, walking towards the flame, cautiously. And there was no mistaking the silhouette's short height.

The Englishman let out a muffled plea, wondering how LeBeau had recovered so quickly and had known to come here, but he wasn't going to question the miracle. He tried his best to call out the Frenchman's name, but he didn't need to; LeBeau was at his side in a heartbeat.

"Pierre!" he gasped, horrified, feeling the shackles and handcuffs. "What has she done to you?"

Newkirk desperately tried to warn LeBeau that the rope had almost burned through, and that there would be no time to unshackle him. LeBeau quickly removed his scarf from the Englishman's mouth.

"Louis, the rope!" he cried. "Grab the rope!"

LeBeau dashed across the stage towards the burning rope; he was inches from it when it snapped. The Frenchman jumped, grabbing the ascending rope just in time. He let out a yell as the heavy, spike-studded board tried to descend. Gritting his teeth and pulling as hard as he could, he was dismayed to realize that the drug had not fully worn off, and he could not pull the rope down to secure it.

"Pierre!" he gasped, the strain evident in his voice. "Pierre, I do not know for how long I can hold it!"

"Just 'ang on long enough for me to tell you what I need to, Little Mate!" Newkirk gasped, shutting his eyes again. "I'm sorry, Louis. 'eaven only knows 'ow much of this could've been avoided if I 'ad just 'ad the modesty to admit that you were right all along, and I was wrong." He shuddered. "I thought you were dead when I found you in that box, and then Andrew told me about your will… I wanted to be furious, but I couldn't. I guess it was because it was me pride that 'ad gotten you killed."

"What pride? It was my own stupidity for walking straight into the lion's den and thinking nothing would happen to me…"

"I drove you to it," Newkirk insisted. "Louis… All I can do is ask for your forgiveness." He sighed, having said his piece as concisely as possible. "You can let go now, Louis."

"_Êtes__-vous __fou_?" LeBeau hissed.

"…I didn't think you would."

The Frenchman didn't reply to this; he was trying to summon his strength for one last desperate attempt. Ignoring his screaming arm muscles, he pulled down on the rope, forcing the suspended spikes to rise as far as they could. He wrapped the rope around one of the hooks used to suspend heavy backdrops and scenery, and did his best to tie it in place. However, his hands and arms were numb, and the knot was not a good one. It would not hold for long, but he prayed it would be long enough.

Keeping his eye on the knot, he headed back to Newkirk and unshackled his ankles and wrists from the table, but stared in dismay at Gretel's additional handcuffs.

"Do you have a lock-pick?" he asked, helplessly.

"I don't know; this is the uniform me double was wearing. You'll 'ave to look in the pockets and see."

"There is no time!" LeBeau cried, glancing back at the loosening knot.

He ran back to the rope, grabbing it again, hoping to tie it in place again, but his arms refused to summon enough strength for him to hold it in that position. The spikes slipped back down, with LeBeau desperately holding on to the end of the rope to keep them from falling the rest of the way.

"I… I cannot…" he gasped, his fingers whitening.

Newkirk struggled to sit up as much as the handcuffs would allow him, but, suddenly, a light bulb went off over his head. The handcuffs were shackling his arms to the table's legs, not the top of the table.

He suddenly launched into a backward roll, which, as he had hoped, sent him off the table and flat on his face on the floor; his extended arms were still handcuffed to the table legs.

There was a cry as LeBeau's strength failed him, and the rope slipped from his hands as he fell to the stage floor. The spikes came crashing down upon the table, and all was silent, save for one horrified whisper.

"Pierre…"

"I'm all right, Louis!" Newkirk gasped as he caught his breath.

LeBeau scrambled over to him at once, uttering a prayer. A search of the jacket pockets revealed that Holmes had carried a set of lock-picks with him, and Newkirk was soon free.

"Ironic," Newkirk muttered, as he sat up. "I come 'ere to avenge you, and you end up saving me."

"Just barely," LeBeau said, noticeably upset at cutting it so close.

"You didn't 'ave to push yourself so 'ard," Newkirk said. "I told you let the ruddy thing go; at least one of us could've escaped."

"I know you said to do that," LeBeau said. "But I didn't feel like rewriting my will."

He looked to the Englishman, who glanced back at him. Newkirk responded by wordlessly pulling LeBeau into a brotherly embrace. The Frenchman returned it as best as his sore arms would allow.


	16. Epilogue

Carter had panicked upon realizing that LeBeau had, apparently, vanished without a trace again. Now half-frantic, he was opening every door he came across, barely apologizing if he happened to have startled the occupants.

He eventually reached Warwick's room, where he was greeted with Mavis' shriek, until she realized who it was.

"Andrew?" she asked. "Did Peter send you to tell me that everything is all right?"

Carter shook his head.

"Sorry, Ma'am; I'm actually looking for him. Do you know where he is?"

"I think 'e's with those two 'orrible ladies; Peter's double 'ad been trying to get me to come 'ere, but on the way, the real Peter gave 'im a right thrashing. Then your colonel came by and 'elped us capture the fake. Peter switched places with the fake and pretended to be 'im delivering me 'ere. But 'e told me to wait in 'ere until 'e sent someone to tell me that it was safe to come out."

"Oh, no…" Carter groaned. "Then that _was_ him I saw? I thought it was Repli-kirk!"

"Then why 'asn't Peter come back?" she asked, her eyes widening in horror. "You don't think something's 'appened, do you?"

"I don't know, but I don't think you should go looking for him all by yourself; Louis and I split up, and now I can't find him!"

"Louis?" Mavis asked. "But Peter said 'e was—"

"I know, but he went and woke up and told me that those women had a trap set for Peter, which is why we came here."

"Well… Colonel 'ogan is coming; 'e meant to give us a few minutes' 'eadstart."

"That's good; he'll think of something, then. But I've still got to figure out a way to stall those women before anything else happens…" Carter trailed off as a stagehand passed the doorway, pulling a long rack of costumes. "And I just got a great idea. You'd better wait here like your brother said; we don't want anything to happen to you now."

"Right," Mavis said, and she locked the door as soon as Carter left.

The American, in the meantime, sidled over to the costume rack and helped himself to some of the items on the rack. His disguises had saved them from Gretel before; hopefully, they would come through again.

* * *

Newkirk and LeBeau, in the meantime, had recovered enough from their ordeal to actively search for the two women.

"So… you're saying that Sandiego convinced Gretel not to kill you and told you where to find me?" Newkirk asked, baffled. "What's 'er game, then?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," LeBeau said. "She seems to want us alive for some reason."

"Well, we can get some answers from 'er after we bring 'er in…" Newkirk said.

"Ah, but you won't be bringing me in, Señor Newkirk," a voice purred.

The corporals froze, glaring at Sandiego as she appeared out of the shadows.

"Why are you harboring such hostility on your faces? After I saved the both of you, I was expecting at least an iota of gratitude!" she said, though she didn't seem too upset by it.

"You've got a lot of nerve," Newkirk hissed. "After everything you put us through, we deserve some answers!"

"_Oui_; why were you working with Gretel and the Communists?" LeBeau demanded. "And then why did you betray them to save us? Are you some sort of double agent?"

Sandiego let out a "tsk" sound.

"You and Gretel both made the mistake of assuming that I was a free agent, ready to switch to whichever side paid the most. But I am not on anyone's side, except my own. I have my own organization. We are not out for these foolish ideas of winning battles and wars, or whether a man believes in capitalism or communism; that's for fools like you to fight over. I am here to gain whatever material wealth I can get from this world; to me, it doesn't matter what borders I cross or which fools I stab in the back. I used Gretel because her crazed zeal allowed me to gain valuable electronics equipment from the Schroeder Corporation. I could care less whether she and that Major Hochstetter join the communists just to get their vengeance on you, even if they don't believe in their ideals. And I certainly could care less about what Heaven-forsaken things you did in Luft Stalag 13, though the rumors I heard were most intriguing. A tiger tank, of all things…"

"Then why save us if you don't really care about us?" Newkirk asked. "Just 'ow does that 'elp your ruddy organization?"

"Because, Señor Newkirk, I have a feeling you and your companions could prove useful to me someday, just as Gretel was. I am already pondering what riches I will get on your account…"

"You won't get anything from us; I can promise you that!" the Englishman retorted, reaching into his pocket. "And 'ere—you can 'ave this emerald brooch of yours back."

"Oh, no, Señor Newkirk; you can hold onto that for some more time, though I will pick it up eventually. Think of it as a promise that you and I will meet again. Oh, and speaking of saving your friends, you might wish to know that Gretel is waiting in the lobby of the theatre, waiting to kill your Colonel Hogan the moment he arrives here."

"_Le colonel_!" LeBeau gasped.

He and Newkirk exchanged glances for the briefest moment, but that was all Sandiego needed. She threw down what turned out to be a smokescreen charge, not unlike the ones Carter often made. In the cover of the smoke, Josefina Sandiego vanished.

Newkirk swore loudly, trying to wave the smoke away.

"Forget her, Pierre," LeBeau said.

The Frenchman opened a window in the back lounge. Newkirk arrived behind him to get a breath of fresh air, but blinked as he took a look outside.

"Cor, look at that; the police 'ave the place surrounded. We 'ave to 'ope that Sandiego won't be able to get past them. And speaking of 'er and 'er ruddy warnings, we need to get to the lobby."

"_Oui_, but are you sure that was not a ruse just to get us to let her go while we were preoccupied?"

"Whether or not Sandiego was lying, Gretel already said she was going to kill the Guv'nor; I certainly wouldn't put it past Gretel, but I ain't about to count on Sandiego intervening yet again. Sandiego's gone, and she isn't coming back. So it's up to us to 'elp the colonel."

The Frenchman nodded, and the two of them dashed through the halls of the theatre, Newkirk using all of the secret passageways he knew of. LeBeau seized Newkirk's arm as they approached the lobby; Gretel was there, her hand in her purse, undoubtedly clutching her gun. More police cars were pulling up to the front of the building, and Hogan and Kinch were both clearly among the policemen.

"Now, Louis!" Newkirk hissed.

The two corporals tried to come in for a sneak attack, but Gretel whirled around, her weapon whipping out of her purse. Her eyes widened in shock.

"This cannot be…!" she hissed, glaring from the Frenchman to the Englishman. "You… You should still be unconscious from that drug! And you—you should be impaled by those spikes!"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Luv," Newkirk said, dryly.

Gretel kept aiming at first one corporal, and then the other. Now it was her turn to panic. Colonel Hogan would be entering in a matter of seconds, and the gun was meant for him; Hogan was the prize. And yet, these two corporals were giving her even more trouble than the colonel.

"Stay where you are—both of you!" she warned. She would have to get rid of Hogan, she realized. Without him, there was no operation, and, knowing these two corporals, if she tried to shoot either of them, the other would end up pulling the bullet out and healing him somehow.

The outside lobby doors opened as Hogan and Kinch entered. Gretel turned around again, trying to get just one shot at the colonel. Newkirk and LeBeau both tackled her to the ground, causing the gun to drop from her hand. She scrambled to retrieve it, but a bespectacled, mustachioed man in the trenchcoat and fedora slammed his foot down on top of it.

"We meet again, Fraulein," he said, his voice quiet and condescending.

Gretel looked up, her eyes widening.

"General von Siedelberg?" she hissed.

"Well," Hogan said, walking over. "I had a bit of trouble recognizing you in civilian clothes, General."

"Ah, Colonel Hogan," Carter said, calmly picking up Gretel's gun. "It seems that, once again, this Fraulein's foolishness has brought us together, _ja_?"

"So it seems," the colonel agreed, wondering what on earth had transpired here. LeBeau was on his feet, Carter was von Siedelberg again, and Newkirk… Well, Newkirk looked like a mess.

Kinch was deliberately avoiding eye contact with Carter, certain that he would crack if he caught his eye. Carter was milking the snooty general disguise for all it was worth, gloating as he handed Gretel over to the police. As Hogan turned to the police to explain that this was a special prisoner who had to be treated with extreme caution and placed under maximum security, Carter ducked away and returned five minutes later as his true self.

The Heroes helped the police search the theatre after Gretel was taken away, though they stopped to finally let poor Mavis out of Warwick's dressing room.

"Carter…" Hogan said, briefly taking the sergeant aside as brother and sister were reunited. "Just answer me one question: Why?"

Carter merely shrugged.

"Just to get her goat, more than anything," he rationalized.

Hogan gave a nod, trying not to reveal how amused he was.

"Just do me a favor next time—warn me when you're going to do that. I'd rather not have local law enforcement see me completely flummoxed after all the string-pulling I've done."

"Sure thing, Sir."

The search of the theatre resumed, but uncovered nothing else. Pandora was clean, and Sandiego had, somehow, eluded the police and escaped. As LeBeau and Newkirk told their story, Carter commented that he didn't know what was worse—the possibility of seeing her again, or the possibility of not seeing her again.

"Either way, we've got ourselves exactly what we don't need," Hogan said. "Another Marya."

"But, _Colonel_! Marya is sweet and pure, and…" LeBeau trailed off at the look on Newkirk's face. The Frenchman gave a wan smile. "And she means nothing when compared to _mes amis_."

"I'll drink to that," Newkirk said, drawing his arm around the shorter Frenchman. "And I've got an announcement to make—to everyone. If you remember, we were discussing about 'ow, some time ago, I wasn't sure if I wanted to go on all of those…" He selected his choice of word carefully, as Mavis was right next to him. "…Get-togethers and trips that you were talking about. Well, now that this particular little get-together is almost over, I think I can safely say that I wasn't really right in the 'ead when I said that."

The arm around LeBeau's shoulders tightened.

_I don't want to come this close to losing me best mates ever again_, Newkirk silently vowed. _And, for that, I need to be with them_.

"Mavis," he said allowed. "I know you 'ate it when I'm always on the move and all, but… Me mates need me. Roger and the old crowd don't need me as much anymore; they're fine."

Mavis put on a brave smile.

"I suppose I understand—and I expect I shall understand a lot more someday in the distant future," she said. "But, in the meantime, you lot look after me brother."

"You do not have to worry about that," LeBeau assured her.

Newkirk turned to Hogan and nodded.

"That's me final decision, Sir."

"I knew you'd make the right choice, Newkirk," the colonel said. "We'll get in touch with you and LeBeau to let you both know when we'll be getting together again. In the meantime, Kinch, Carter, and I need to get back to the States as soon as possible. General Barton needs to hear a few things—namely about what happened here, and about Hochstetter."

"What _are_ we going to do about Hochstetter?" asked Kinch. "And Sandiego, for that matter?"

Hogan sighed,

"There isn't much we _can_ do, other than count on the fact that we'll cross paths with the both of them again," he said. "But the important thing is that we've got Gretel and Newkirk's double in custody, and Newkirk's name is cleared."

"Thank 'eaven for that," Mavis said.

Hogan nodded.

"We'll cross the Sandiego and Hochstetter bridges when we come to them," he finished.

"And I'll be ready for those bridges," Carter said, his eyes getting that familiar spark. "I'll whip up a batch of the best—"

"Carter…"

"Uh, right, Sir. I guess I'd better get my things from Newkirk's place and meet you and Kinch at the hotel, huh?"

Hogan nodded, a forced smile on his face.

"We can go with you lot to the airport, if you like," Newkirk offered.

"You and LeBeau both need your rest," Hogan insisted. "Go home and put your feet up. That means no cooking, LeBeau." He turned to Mavis. "Miss Newkirk, I know I was never your commanding officer, but I hereby order you to make sure that those two get their rest."

"Right-o, Sir," she said, saluting him. She wasn't sure what was going to happen, and she knew that asking questions would get her nowhere, but she also knew that, somehow, things were going to be okay.

As things wrapped up at the theatre, LeBeau and the Newkirk siblings headed back to their apartment. Carter went with them to gather up his things, thanking the both of them and going on about how great it was to be together like old times. It took Newkirk's quip of how upset Hogan would be if Carter missed the flight home to get the sergeant to leave.

LeBeau and Newkirk both collapsed after Carter left; the day had been especially taxing for the both of them. Mavis went to the kitchen to get them something to eat.

"There's this pot what's been on the stove since noon," she announced. "It smells like fish stew."

"It is my bouillabaisse," LeBeau called back, as the younger corporal made a face. "You can reheat that, and it will taste just the same."

"Yeah—terrible…" Newkirk murmured.

"I would punch you, but my arm is too sore."

"Oh, don't start arguing again!" Mavis pleaded. "After everything you've been through today, you still want to keep at it?"

"Maybe it _is_ our way of showing we care," LeBeau mused.

"Aside from rewriting your will, you mean," Newkirk said, quietly.

"Pierre…"

"You've put me in quite a spot, Louis," he said. "I can't exactly return your generous gesture; you wouldn't want me shabby possessions, anyway."

"Pierre, I did it because I wanted to help you, and no other reason!" the Frenchman insisted.

"And I appreciate that," he said. "But since I know it's useless to try to get you to change the will, I've got only one choice—make sure that you stay alive."

LeBeau blinked; he hadn't expected that as a reply. A smile found its way back to his face.

"I would say that is a fair exchange."

"Glad you think so," Newkirk replied, smiling, as well.

Mavis soon arrived with the reheated bouillabaisse, and LeBeau dug in immediately. Newkirk hesitated, but then relented and took a bowl of the stew for himself.

This time, it didn't taste bad at all.

* * *

_Author's note: And, it's done! All that's left are to address the loose ends: Hochstetter and Sandiego. As this fic is merely the first installment in a series, Hochstetter and Sandiego will be playing various roles later on. I had a lot of fun with this fic, and thanks to all who read and reviewed!_


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